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Published Semi-Monthly. 

128 Pages.] ' [Complete. 


BEADLE’S 



The Choicest Work of the Most Popular Authors, 


MYRA., 

THE 

CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


BY HRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. 


IRWIN P. BEADLE & CO., 141 WILLIAM ST. 

Ross & Tousey, General Agents. 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1860, 
by Ibwim P. Bbadjlb & Co., in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States 
for the Southern District of New- York. 


:bjbla.:djl,e’s ixljyiic w 0 . o. 

THE SLAVE SCULPTOR; 



OR, THE PROPHETESS OF THE SECRET CHAMBERS. 




m 


<3 



4 



\ 



MYRA MEETING IIER MOTHER. 



MYRA.: 




THE 


CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


A 


ROMANCE OE REAL LIFE. 


if 




BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. 


-V 01 u ".%, 




87 




NEW YORK : 

IRWIN P. BEADLE AND COMPANY, 
141 William St., corner of Fulton. 


J 


*V~^ 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year I860, by 
IRWIN P. BEADLE & CO., 
ta the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Southern District of New York. 


Pddney & Eessetx, Printers, 
T9 John Street , JS r . F. 


MYRA, 

THE 

CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


CHAPTER I. 

MOTHER AND CHILD. 

“ One look upon tliy face ere thou depart ! 

My daughter ! it is soon to let thee go ! 

My daughter ! with thy birth has gushed a spring 
I knew not of— filling my heart with tears, 

And turning with strange tenderness to thee — 

A love, 0 God ! it seems so — that must flow 
Far as thou fleest, and wrap my soul and thee. 

Henceforth thy love must be a yearning charm 
Drawing me after thee. And so farewell!” — Willis. 

The windows were all open, but shaded fold after fold with 
muslin transparent as dew drops, and snowy as the drifts of a 
summer cloud. The floor was spread with East India matting, 
and in a corner of a chamber stood a couch shaded with clouds 
of delicate lace and clad in snow white even to the floor — a 
great easy chair, covered with chaste dimity, stood close by 
the bed, and further off a miniature couch, snow white also, 
save where the soft rose tints of an inner curtain, light and silken, 
broke through the waves of snowy gossamer that flowed over 
it. Upon the pillow of this pretty couch lay a bouquet of flow- 
ers tied loosely by an azure-colored ribbon, and more beautiful 
still a sleeping infant, with one tiny hand resting like a torn peach- 
blosom, on its little bosom and its sweet lips parted smilingly, as a 
bud uncloses to the warm sunbeam. There, in its snowy nest, 
with the fragrant flowers sending their breath in and out through 


6 


MYRA, 


the misty draperies, and half smothered in delicate lace, lay the 
beautiful infant; and a little way off, upon the larger couch re- 
posed another being in the first bud and bloom of womanly beauty, 
not asleep, but with her large eyes wandering tenderly toward 
the infant, and from that to a bouquet of orange-blossoms and 
moss-roses that, feebly clasped in her delicate fingers, was yet 
falling apart and dropping its blossoms over the counterpane. 

An air of gentle languor lay upon this young creature, and 
there was something more than that affectionate tenderness 
with which a mother regards her young child, in the look that 
she, from time to time, cast upon the slumbering infant — a 
shade of sadness, that but for her feeble state, might have ta- 
ken the strength of passionate regret, seemed ready to break 
from her eyes in a flood of tears, whenever they dwelt longer 
than usual upon the babe. But when her grief was ready to 
break forth, she would allow her eyes to droop toward the 
flowers that seemed to have some pleasant association con- 
nected with their fragrance, and a sweet smile — not the less 
sweet that there was sadness in it — would part her lips while 
a faint sigh floated through them. 

All at once the infant began to nestle in its crib, and open- 
ing its large brown eyes, turned them upon the recumbent fe- 
male. As if her tears lay so near the surface as to require 
only this motion to set them flowing, the young mother, as 
she encountered the infantile glance, shuddered faintly, and 
large drops gathered in her eyes, and fell one by one over her 
fuirbut pale cheeks. 

“ I must not look at it, I must not learn to love it so,” she 
murmured, turning her head away, and shading her tearful 
eyes with one hand. “ Ah ! why should I, a mother so young, 
and with a husband like 7dm, always find every feeling, every 
impulse shackled as it springs from my heart? Why was 
there no one to shield my youth from the blight, that I feel, 
too surely, will cling around me to the end ?” 

The infant began to cry, and there came into the room a 
colored woman, tall and with that superb luxuriance of form 
that so frequently characterizes the dusky-liued woman of the 
South. She approached the crib and took the child in her 
arms, hushing it with a sort of cajoling attempt at tenderness, 
that seemed to annoy the young mother not a little. 


THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


7 


ji Give the babe to me !” she said, feebly reaching forth her 
arms. 

“ Better not, better not, missus,” replied the woman, press- 
ing her full lips upon the velvet cheek resting on her bosom — 
a most unnatural pillow, as the unhappy mother felt all too 
keenly. “ Nurse said last night that young missus must be 
kept quiet, and the baby not left to fret her so much.” 

“ Fret me ! my child tret me ! Give it to me, I say,” cried 
the young mother so passionately that the color broke over 
her pale cheek, like the abrupt opening of a rose-bud. “ I tis 
cruel, it is unkind, thus to keep a babe from its mother’s bosom. 
He never ordered it. I know well enough it is not his wish 
that I should be tortured in this manner.” 

“ Take the child to its mother. Why do you hesitate in 
obeying your mistress ?” cried a firm ancj manly voice from the 
door ; and with his lofty step somewhat subdued, a gentleman 
entered the chamber, whose air of authority awed the negress 
at once. He approached the young female, who had started 
eagerly up from her pillow, with every manifestation of deep 
tenderness in her voice and manner. 

“ Have you been waiting for me, Zulima ?” he said, bending 
down to kiss the fair forehead of his wife. “ I was kept longer 
than usual at the counting-house this morning.” 

“ Oh ! I knew that you would be here soon,” replied the 
young wife, taking his hand between both hers, and kissing it 
with a degree of passionate tenderness that thrilled through 
her feeble frame, till, in her weak state, excess of feeling be- 
came almost painful. 

“ What ! because Is cattered my path to your bedside with 
the flowers you have been wasting ?” was the smiling reply. 

“ They were welcome and very sweet, for they told me that 
you were soon to follow,” said the young wife, gathering the 
scattered flow'ers together with her hand. “ See ! your little 
daughter has kept hers in better condition. She is not old 
enough to tear her flowers to pieces the moment they come 
within reach !” 

“ Like her mother, ha ! Zulima !” said the gentleman, shaking 
his head, but smiling fondly all the time. “ She must have 
more patience and less pride than her mother, this pretty 
child— or she will be” — 


8 


MYRA, 


“ As unfortunate and as unhappy as her mother has been,” 
said the young wife, and her eyes filled with tears. 

“ I only hope she will be as lovely and as innocent, what- 
ever her lot may prove, and as truly beloved, Zulima,” he ad- 
ded, after a moment’s pause ; and with an expression of deep 
feeling, mingled with a shade of sadness, the proud husband 
gazed upon his wife and child till, the tears clouded his own 
fine eyes. 

For a moment there was silence between the husband and 
wife. Both were gazing upon the infant, and both were occu- 
pied with thoughts where pain and tenderness were almost 
equally blended. Pride, stem and lofty pride, tinged the 
sweet current of hi3 reflections, and she — impulsive young crea- 
ture — thought of nothing but her sufferings, her passionate love 
for him, and of the beautiful child she was sheltering upon her 
bosom with one fairy arm, from w T hich she had irriDatiently flung 
back the loose sleeve of her night-dress, as if detesting the del- 
icate lawn for coming between her and that little form. 

“ You will not send her away !” said the young creature, 
lifting her eyes to the face of her husband, which was becom- 
ing more and more thoughtful each moment. “ Ah * if you 
knew how much I love her !” 

“ I know — I know, Zulima,” said the husband, interrupting 
the beautiful pleader with an accent which, though not un- 
kind, told how the slightest opposition chafed his proud na- 
ture. “It is natural. You must love the child ; who could 
help it? but do you not love me better?— do you not love its 
future fame ? its father’s* fame ? — your own reputation, well- 
enough to relinquish her for a time ?” 

“ I have thought of it all — I know what the world will say 
of me — but I cannot give her- up — indeed, indeed I cannot.” 
The young mother rose in the bed, and with her child folded 
to her bosom vvith one arm, cast the other round the proud 
man’s neck, and drew his face down till it touched the infant, 
as she covered his forehead with kisses. “ Yon will keep us 
both — you will not take our child from me !” 

“Zulima, it must be,” said the husband, drawing gently 
back, and freeing himself from her fond embrace, while his 
fine features bespoke the terrible pain which it cost him to be 
firm. “ While the man who has once claimed you for his 


TIIE CHILD OP ADOPTION. 


9 


wife remains unpunished, I cannot acknowledge you mine, 
legally, innocently mine, as in tlie sight of Heaven you are.” 

“ I do not ask it. Let the world think of me as it likes. I 
will submit to reproach — to suspicion — any thing — but leave 
my child — never?” 

“ Zulima !” was the firm and almost reproachful reply ; “do 
you think that your reputation is separate from mine ? Shall 
I cast a stain upon my wife which no after time can efface, 
and then produ.ce her, wronged and sullied, to society ? Listen 
to me, Zulima ; cease weeping and listen ! The man is yet 
altve who has called you wife ” — 

“ I know — I know I” cried the poor young creature, shud- 
dering from head to foot, and burying her face in the pillows; 
“ Oh say no more ! I will give up the child — but spare me 
that subject !” 

“ No, Zulima. Let us speak of it this once, and then it 
shall be banished our lips forever. Think yon that it is not 
painful to me as to you ?” 

How painful it was might be guessed by the colorless cheeks 
and the quivering of that proud man’s lips while he was speak- 
ing. 

“ While a mere child you became the dupe and victim of 
this vile man, De Grainges. He wronged your confidence, 
wronged your love” — 

“ No, no ! I did not love him — I was a child — I knew not 
what love was !” broke in passionate murmurs from the pillow 
where Zulima’s face w T as buried. “ Do not say I loved that 
man !” 

“ My poor wife ! I know that you did not love him. I 
know quite as well that you do love me. Look up, Sweet 
child ! I would give worlds that I could speak of all this with- 
out distressing you thus. Bear with me only minute longer. 
My only wish is to reconcile you, if possible, to the inevitable.” 

“ I will listen,” replied the tortured young mother. 

“ I know, Zulima, that you were deceived by this bad man— 
that he wedded you -while his wife was living, and that you 
fled from his home the moment this truth was made known. 
Of all this I was thoroughly convinced before you became my 
wife ; but until this man is convicted in open court and before 
the whole -world, how can I convince society of that which to 


10 


MYltA, 


me is a sacred truth ? how, before the fact of his previous mar- 
riage is thus publicly substantiated, can I proclaim the union 
which has made me more than happy ? Zulima, I am a proud 
man — sensitive to public opinion — careful of my standing in 
the world. Were a breath of suspicion to rest upon the fame 
of my wife, I should never be happy again. You are young — 
supposed to be unmarried — living here under the roof of my 
dearest friend, who, with one exception, is alone in my confi- 
dence. In a few months this man, now in prison, will receive 
the punishment of his crime. Do you not see the peril of 
keeping this child with you till after that event enables me to 
claim my wife before the world ? Zulima ! look up — say that 
you forgive me the pain I am causing — say, that, for my sake, 
you will submit to have this little one sent from you for a sea- 
son — only for a season.” 

Subdued and touched to the heart by the depth of feeling 
with which this appeal was made, Zulima arose from the pil- 
low where she had been striving to subdue her grief, and tak- 
ing the infant in her trembling arms, motioned her husband to 
receive it. The moment she w T as relieved from the sweet bur- 
den, the young creature fell back, and closing her eyes, tried 
to check the grief that, however suppressed, still clamored at 
her heart. It was all in vain : the tears gushed like shattered 
diamonds though the thick and silky lashes, and she grasped 
the counterpane nervously with one hand, in a terrible strife 
to force back the agony that was choking her. Poor young 
mother ! she felt with that keen intuition, which is like a proph- 
ecy, that she was not parting from her child for a season, but 
forever. 

“ You consent, Zulima ? You will give up our little one 
with no anger, and without all this bitter grief?” cried the 
strong man, pale as death, and bending over the young mother, 
with the child pressed to his bosom. 

“ I will, I do,” burst from those pale and trembling lips. 

The husband turned away; his limbs trembled, his eyes 
were blinded with moisture, and the weight of that little babe 
seemed to bend and sway his strong frame, as if he had been 
a reed. He looked back upon the mother. There she lay, 
the wet eyelids closed and quivering — her white lips pressed 
together, and so pale, that but for the agitation of her features 


THE CniLD OE ADOPTION. 


11 


she might have seemed stricken dead in the midst of her an- 
guish. He returned to the couch. 

“ Zulima, would you kiss the babe before it goes !” 

“ I dare not — I dare not,” broke from those pale lips ; then 
Zulima held back her sobs, for his footsteps were departing— a 
door closed — husband and child both were gone. Then the 
mother’s anguish broke forth, her arms were flung upward, 
her quivering hands clasped wildly together — a moment and 
they fell heavily upon the orange flowers that still littered the 
bed, crushing them in her utter insensibility. 

Then, while the young wife lay so pale and deathly there stole 
toward the bed that negro woman, who bent down till the 
bright Madras ’kerchief turbaning her forehead mingled with 
the chestnut tresses that lay scattered over the shoulder and bo- 
som of the sufferer. She listened a moment, as if to make her- 
self quite certain that what seemed so deathly was not death 
itself, and then glided from the chamber. 

The negress stole softly through the open hall, and into a 
spacious garden ; a row of small white buildings stood at the 
farther extremity, gleaming in snowy patches through the 
vines and trees that embowered that portion of the garden. 
These were the slave dwellings belonging to a rich plantation 
some three miles from New Orleans — belonging to the husband 
of Zulima, and occupied for a season by his bosom friend that 
the infancy of his child might be honorably sheltered. And 
here in a little whitewashed room of the slave dwelling this bo- 
som friend was impatiently Watching the approach of the fe- 
male slave whom he had placed — a dark spy — in the bed-cham- 
ber of that helpless young wife. With his face close to one of 
the four panes of glass that admitted light to the humble room, 
he watched the fiery colors of the Madras turban, which the 
woman always wore, as it glided like some gorgeous bird 
through the thick foliage, nearer and nearer to the den where 
he had for two hours been waiting for news from the sick- 
chamber. The slave entered her dwelling, and sat down be- 
fore her master, full of that consequential assumption that a lit- 
tle power is certain to call forth in one of her ignorant and de- 
graded class. 

“ Well, Louisa,” said the master, with a show of careless in- 
difference, for he was of a cool and subtle temperament, with 


12 


MYRA. 


passions slow ancl calculating, but all the more grasping for 
the deliberation, with which, like well-trained hounds, they 
were let free from the leash of his strong will ; “ W ell, Louisa, 
how is the lady this morning ?” 

“ Oh, she am about de same, Massa Ross— no danger of her 
going off dis bout anyhow,” replied the negress, turning her 
head on one side and moving a palm-leaf fan before her face, 
with an ah* of self-conceit that made her auditor smile, spite of 
his pre-occupation. 

“ She just had a little fainting spell when I come out, but it 
won’t last long— no danger !” 

“ Has she had any visitors this morning — has he been there, 
Louisa ?” 

“ Dar, now, you ask me dat, Massa Ross, just as if he didn’t 
come ebery morning of him life.” 

“ Then he has been there,” rejoined the man, “and left her 
fainting. Tell me, Louisa,— oh here is the Napoleon that I 
promised.” 

“ There, that am something like Massa Ross,” and the ne- 
gress tied the gold in a corner of her handkerchief, and thrust it 
into her bosom. “ Yes, he was there a long time.” 

“Well,” interrupted Ross, evidently getting inpatient, “tell 
me all that passed, word for word ; do not forget a look or a 
syllable— and another gold piece is ready when you have 
done.” 

And the negress, thus stimulated, told him all. That scene of 
tender anguish — the struggle of love and pride which she had 
witnessed in the sick chamber — all was related ; and oh ! how 
its exquisite pathos, its touching dignity was desecrated by the 
vulgar mind and coarse speech of that slave woman ! 

Ross listened to it all, his face changing with every sentence ; 
for, with only that coarse witness, he did not think it necessary 
to control his features with the dissimulation that had become 
a habit. He listened, and as he felt, thu3 the evil man looked. 
When the woman ceased speaking the exultation of a fiend 
was in the smile that curled his lip. 

“ And he was determined — spite of her caresses, spite of her 
tears. I knew that it would be so. He is not a man to 
waver, having once taken a resolution — but the child, Louisa ? 
I have recommended a woman up the river to take cjiarge of 


THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. ^ 13 

it, but you, my good Louisa, must still be its nurse. It seems 
a feeble little thing ; do you not think so, Louisa ? 

“ Feeble ! Lor a massa ! No ; it’s the best-natured, healthy 
little thing I ever see,” was the reply, and Louisa agitated her 
palm-leaf fan with considerable violence. 

“ away from you, Louisa, with some one less kind, it 
may become sickly in a very little time yon know.” 

“ Sure enough !” and Louisa half suspended the action of 
her fan, as she fell into a fit of profound contemplation. 

“ With you to give it medicine and superintend, if it were 
ill, I should feel quite safe,” said Ross, and a strange, fiendish 
smile crept over his lips. “ Of course, I should come and see 
you very often.” 

“Oh! you would. Well, den, I haven’t nothing to say 
against going with the baby.” 

“ Wherever I send you, Louisa ?” 

“Well, yes, I don’t care, if it isn’t so far off that you can’t 
come once a week or so to see us, Massa Ross ; but I won’t 
go far, now I tell you.” 

“ »Y ell, now, go to your charge. I will see you again to- 
morrow.” 

The negress arose, and with an insolent twist of her head to 
the left shoulder, stood in the door-way fanning herself. 

“Well,” said Ross, impatiently, “well, what are you wait- 
ing for now !” 

“ Dis piece of gold in my bosom, Massa Ross,” and the ne- 
gress placed a plump ebony hand upon her heart. “ It is ’gun 
beginning to feel lonesome.” 

“ Oh ! I had forgotten ; here, here.” 

Louisa drew forth the pocket handkerchief, which, from its 
embroidery and exquisite lace, must have been purloined from 
her mistress, and a second Napoleon was nested in her bosom. 

“Stop,” said Ross, as she was going out; “You said that 
the lady was fainting — that he took the child forth in his arms. 
Where is it now ?” 

“ How should I know ? I s’pose he took the baby to your 
wife. She was in the back parlor, and he turned that way.” 

“ There he is now. Go back into the room, Louisa, go 
back !” Ross seized his hat as he spoke, and leaving the 
slave-house, wound through a grove of fruit.trees that sheltered 


14 


MYllA. 


him from sight, and taking a serpentine path, came leisurely 
forth into that part of the garden, where he had seen Mr. 
Clark. The proud man was walking hurriedly forward, his 
arms folded, -and one white aristocratic hand thrust into the 
bosom of his black dress. He was very pale, and his finely 
cut features bore traces of great internal anguish. He saw 
Ross, and turned quickly toward him. 

“ It is oyer, my friend ; it is all over,” he said, grasping the 
hand which Ross extended, and wringing it hard. A smile, 
full of proud anguish, broke the firm and classical beauty of 
his mouth, and his eyes spoke volumes of suffering. 

“ What is over ? what has happened ?” inquired Ross, start- 
led and turning almost as white as his friend. 

“ My wife ! my child !” 

“ What of them ? what has happened to them, my friend ?” 

“ Nothing but that which was inevitable. But Zulima, my 
poor, poor wife ! It would wring your heart to see how she 
suffers from the separation from her child.” 

“ But the child ; is it yet with her ?” 

“ Hark l” said the other, lifting his hand. “ Do you not 
hear ?” 

It was the sound of a carriage driving rapidly from the 
house. Mr. Clark seemed listening to the sound as if his life 
was departing with it — fainter and fainter from his bosom. 
There was something in his countenance which Ross dared 
not disturb, though his soul was burning with curiosity to 
know why the common sound of carriage-wheels grinding 
through the gravelly soil should so profoundly'"' agitate his 
benefactor. The sound grew distant, and died away before 
another word was spoken, then Mr. Clark turned toward his 
false friend, his nerves hitherto drawn to their most rigid ten- 
sion relaxed, and his eye met the gaze with which^ Ross was 
curiously regarding him with an appeal for sympathy, that 
would have touched a heart for stone. 

“ It is gone !” he said, in a broken voice. “ My child is 
gone !” 

“ Your child gone ? when, where ?” cried Ross, fearfully 
excited. “ Surely you have not sent the infant from its 
mother so abruptly— and— and without consulting— I mean 
without informing your best friend.” 


A WOUNDED FAWN. 


15 


“ That carriage — you heard it — bore away Zulima’s child 1” 
said the unhappy father, mournfully. 

“ But where lias it gone ? With whom is it placed ?” 

“ It is placed with one whom I have long known, the 
noble and childless wife of an old and dear friend. Myra will 
be to them as an own child, till I claim her again.” 

“ And may I not know the people, and the place?” inquired 
the false friend. “ The child of my benefactor is dear to me 
as my own.” 

“ I have pledged myself to secrecy in this. It was the desire 
of my friend,” repeated Mr. Clark ; “ but for that you should 
know every thing. All this concealment will soon be over ; a 
few weeks and this man must be sentenced. Then wife and 
child shall take possession of their home before the world. In 
this you can help me. I can not well appear in person to 
press forward this man’s conviction, but you, my friend, will 
use every effort to relieve me from this painful position. My 
poor wife scarcely suffers more than I do ?” 

“ I will do every thing that you desire. Indeed, the com- 
monest gratitude should insure that,” said Ross, pressing his 
patron’s hand, but with restless and nervous haste in his man- 
ner. “ Shall I set out for the city at once ?” 

“ No, no ; seek your wife first ; tell her to comfort my poor 
Zulima. I can not see her now ; without wishing to reproach 
me, she could not help it. I tell you, Ross, I would rather 
encounter a squadron of armed men, than the look of those 
soft eyes, as they followed her child this morning, when I took 
it from her. It was the glance of a wounded fawn, as we 
have often seen it, turned upon the hunter.” 

“ I will see my wife at once,” replied Ross, unable with all 
his duplicity to conquer the disappointment that was consuming 
him ; “ then I will depart for the city, and make a strong 
effort to bring De Grainges to his trial.” 

“ It is strange,” said Mr. Clark ; “ but some influence that 
I can not fathom seems to keep back this man’s sentence. 
The court, as if it were trifling with his case only to perpet- 
uate my troubles, keeps putting off his sentence from day to 
day with cruel pertinacity. But now I am resolved that it 
shall be more prompt ; this hidden influence must and shall 
be revealed.” 


16 


MYRA, THE CHILD OP ADOPTION. 


Ross listened to the first portion of this speech with a cold 
and crafty smile playing and deepening about his mouth, but 
at the close this smile died away, and with it every vestige of 
color — his eyes wandered rapidly from object to object, avoid- 
ing the face of his benefactor, and when Mr. Clark would have 
spoken again, he forgot all the habitual deference of his man- 
ner and interrupted him. 

“ Have no trouble about this man, De Grainges ; I will at- 
tend to him at once. The cause of this unaccountable delay 
in the court shall be ascertained and remedied. How that I 
see how deeply your happiness is involved, no effort shall be 
wanting on my part to bring the trial to an issue. To this 
end, I must start for the city at once.” 

Ross held out his hand, and grasped that of his patron. 

“Accomplish this for me, Ross, and no being ever lived 
more grateful than I shall be,” said the generous man. “ I de- 
pend on you.” 

“You may, most positively,” was the emphatic reply; and 
wringing the hand he held, Ross left the garden. He met a 
servant in the hall, and accosted him with the sharp command 
to have a horse saddled. Then, passing into the inner room, 
he spoke a few hasty words, not to his wife, but to the black 
woman, Louisa, and then hurried to the stable. 

With the sluggish habits of his race, the negro was lazily 
dragging forth a saddle from its repository, when his master 
came up booted, and with a riding whip in his hand. 

“ Walk quick, you scoundrel !” he said, laying the whip 
over the sleek negro with a force that made the old fellow 
start into something resembling haste ; but even this unheard- 
of activity did not satisfy the master ; he snatched the saddle, 
flung it over the horse, and set his teeth firmly together, as he 
buckled the girth. Sharply ordering the man out of his way, 
he sprang upon the horse and dashed toward the city, at first 
in a light canter ; but the moment he was out of sight, the 
high-spirited animal was put to the top of his speed, and horse 
and man flew like lightning along the road. 

At each turn of the road, Ross would lean forward on his 
saddle and take a new survey of the distance, muttering his 
disappointment in half-gasped sentences, as he sped along. 

“ Oh, if I could but overtake the carriage before it reaches 


THE CITY PRISON. 


17 


the city ! A single glimpse of it might be enough — nothing x 
should take me from the track ; nothing, nothing. Ha ! that 
is it — no, only a sugar-cart. Why did I let him keep me ? I 
must, I will know who these people are — no, no, I am foiled 
at last l” 

This exclamation was followed by a sharp check to the 
horse, who was still bounding forward at the top of his speed. 
The city lay before him ; but along the winding highway, 
over which his eye ran like lightning, there was no carriage 
at all resembling the one that Louisa had described to him as 
that which had borne her young charge away. 

At a slow pace, but with his horse reeking with the effects 
of his former hot speed, Boss rode into the city. He took a 
circuitous route, to his own counting-house, and held a long 
consultation with a young man whom he found there. This 
lasted several hours ; and then the two walked arm-in-arm 
toward the city prison. 

Through the gloomy labyrinths of this prison the two men 
made their way, conversing together in low voices ; a turnkey 
went before them, humming a tune to himself* and sometimes 
raising an accompaniment by playfully dashing a huge iron 
key, which he held in one hand, against the door of some 
prisoner’s cell, smiling grimly as he heard the poor inmate 
spring forward, in the vain hope that some friend had come 
to break the gloom of his bondage. From time to time, the 
two visitors seemed to study this man’s face with close scru- 
tiny ; and as some new manifestation of character broke forth 
in, his manner or his song, they would exchange glances that 
were full of meaning. 

“ Offer him gold !” whispered Ross to his companion ; “ say 
that is for his trouble; we can judge something by the man- 
ner in which he receives it.” 

“ True,” was the emphatic but whispered reply, “ it will be 
a sure test.” 

The officer paused at the entrance of a cell, and placed his 
key in the lock. “ This is De Grainges’ cell, gentlemen ; how 
long will you wish to stay with him ?” 

“ We may wish -to remain so long that you will suffer some 
inconvenience,” said Ross’s companion, dropping his hand into 
a pocket with that easy grace which renders the most singular 


18 


MYKA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


acts of some men perfectly natural in their seeming. “ Here 
is something to repay the trouble we may occasion.” 

The turnkey reached forth his hand eagerly for the silver 
coin which he supposed the stranger was about to offer him, 
but when he saw a bright piece of gold glittering in his palm, 
the sudden joy of his heart broke with a sort of gloating fero- 
city over his face, and with a low chuckle he folded his other 
hand over the gold, and began to rub the palms together, with 
the coin between them in a warm clasp, as if he thought 
thus to infuse some portion of the precious metal into his own 
person. 

Ross and his companion had stepped within the cell, and 
thus, clouded with semi-darkness themselves, watched the 
man, whose face was fully revealed in the broadly-lighted 
corridor. 

“ It will do,” whispered Ross, smiling, “ it will do.” 

“ Yes,” said the other thoughtfully ; “ he is one of those 
who would sell his soul for money.” 

The man said this with the air of one who reflected sadly 
upon the infirmities of human nature, and really felt shocked 
at the gross cupidity that himself had tempted ; and so it was. 
lie did not reflect that he himself was there for no purpose on 
earth, but to barter his own soul for the very yellow dross, 
only in a larger amount ; that he was ready to yield to this 
man’s bartered treachery ; that all the difference between him- 
self and the man he tempted, lay in the price which each set 
upon his integrity. But the great villain despised the lesser 
sincerely, and sighed that human nature could be so degraded. 
So it is all over the world. Those who shroud their crimes 
in purple and fine linen, ever do and ever will look down 
with benign contempt on those who fold lesser crimes scantily 
in poverty and rags ; so scantily that the world sees them as 
they are, coarse, rude, and glaring. 

Thus, shaking their heads and sighing over the degeneracy 
of the human heart, these two arcli-villains entered the cell of 
De Grainges, the bigamist, leaving the officer without to gloat 
over his piece of gold. 

A tall man, pale from confinement, and yet possessed of a 
certain air of languid elegance, sat within the cell writing. lie 
looked up, as the two visitors entered, and regarded them with 


CONFESSION OF GUILT. 


19 


an expression of nervous surprise, but observing that they were 
gentlemen in appearance, arose courteously, and placed the 
chair, in which he had been sitting, for Ross. The cell con- 
tained but two seats, and' the prisoner stood up with his arms 
folded, and leaning in a position that had much grace in it 
against the wall. 

“ You have come, gentlemen,” said the prisoner, in a low, 
sad voice — “ you have doubtless come to tell me that the time 
of my sentence has arrived ?” 

“ No,” said Ross ; “ that would be a painful task, and one 
from which we are happily saved. We come, as friends, to 
ask some questions regarding this singular case. Perhaps we 
may have the power — we certainly have the will — to serve 
you.” 

“It is too late,” replied the prisoner, sadly. “ My trial is 
over. Why they have not sentenced me before this is incom- 
prehensible.” 

“ To you, perhaps, but not to us. You have strong friends 
outside ; those who have done something in keeping back the 
sentence, and may do more — obtain, for instance, a new 
trial.” 

“ To what end ?” questioned the prisoner. “ I am guilty. 
I have confessed it. In the wild delirium of a passion that 
was never equaled in the heart of man, I married the most 
confiding and lovely creature that ever lived. The fraud was 
detected. My wife — my living wife forced herself into the 
home where I had sheltered my falsely-won bride. Zulima 
would not love the villaim who had wronged her. She left 
me; and without her I care very little whether it is to a 
prison or a grave.” 

“ But what if Zulima loved you yet ? What if she only 
desired that in this trial your right to her could be estab- 
lished ?” 

The prisoner shook his head. 

“ I only say,” continued Ross, “ if this were the case ; if a 
new trial were granted, if there was no lack of funds to pave 
the way through court, would you not, having a new trial, 
suppress the proofs of this former marriage ? Might not your 
wife herself be persuaded to aid in clearing you ?” 

“ No,” replied the prisoner, firmly. “ It could not be. My 


20 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 

wife pursues me with that strong hate which is born of baffled 
passion. Zulima ceased to love me.” 

“ Because she believed her marriage unlawful,” said Ross. 

“It was unlawful. I have acknowledged it again and 
again. Zulima had nothing left — nothing but her freedom 
from the man that had wronged her to hope for. I would 
not deprive her of that.” 

“And if the means were before you ? • If you could obtain 
a new trial, this first marriage, you are certain, would be proven 
against you ?” 

“ I am very certain,” replied the prisoner. 

“ Remember, if they fail to prove the first marriage, you are 
free forever, and Zulima is your lawful wife. Is not this 
worth an effort ?” 

The unhappy man clasped his hands, and for a moment 
there broke through his sad eyes a luster thajt was perfectly 
dazzling. 

“ Worth an effort !” he said. “ Oh, heavens ! I would die 
but to see her look upon me again with love for a single mo- 
ment.” 

“ Then why not make the effort ?” 

“ Because I know that Zulima has ceased to love me. She 
is young, beautiful. I feel that she has brought me here, not 
for revenge, but that herself may attain honorable freedom. I 
would not raise my hand to thwart her in the just object.” 

The two men looked anxiously at each other. They were 
astounded by the strange magnanimity of the prisoner. 

“ I tell you,” said Ross, earnestly “ this thing can be brought 
about. Your counsel have seen the witnesses. Gold is a 
potent agent. Even your wife yields ; she will not appear. 
You can be cleared of this charge ; you can claim Zulima as 
your lawful wife. We pledge ourselves to accomplish all that 
we have proposed.” 

“ Gentlemen, you seem kind, and I thank you ; but I know 
that the wrong which I inflicted on that young girl has been 
followed by her aversion ; she has told me so. She is not my 
lawful wife ; without her love — her firm, earnest love, I would 
not claim her if she were. All that she desires is freedom ; 
that she shall have, though it cost my life instead of a few 
years’ imprisonment.” 


PLAN FOR ESCAPE. 


21 


Ross arose and went into the corridor, where he conversed 
in a low voice and very earnestly with the turnkey. Mean- 
time the prisoner sat down in the empty chair, and burying 
his face in his hands, seemed to he lost in bitter thought. 
When Ross returned he arose and stood up, but his face was 
haggard, and he seemed to suffer much from the struggle that 
had been aroused in his breast. 

“ Then you are determined not to claim a new trial ?” 

“ I am,” was the reply. 

“ Perhaps it is as well ; but we are the friends of Zulima. 
She suffers, she shrinks from the thought of your imprison- 
ment. This new appeal may be impossible, but there is an- * 
other way. . Your trial has done all for Zulima that can be 
accomplished ; it sets her free. Now she would give that to 
you, which your self devotion will secure to her — freedom. 
To-night, De Grainges, the means of escape will be provided ; 
at day-break, to-morrow, a vessel sails for Europe ; you must 
become one of her passengers.” 

“ And does she desire this ?” asked the prisoner, aroused all 
at once from the stubborn resolve of self-sacrifice that had 
possessed him. 

“ She does ; we are her messengers.” 

“ To-niirht — this is sudden ! and she desires it ? She deems 

O 

the trial that has taken place sufficient for her emancipation 
from the hateful bonds that made her mine. You are certain 
of this ?” 

“ Most certain.” 

“ And the means of escape ?” 

“ Leave that to us. The time, midnight ; be ready. That 
is all we desire of you ” 

“ I wiLl be ready,” said the young man, falling into the 
chair which Ross had just left, and overcome with a sudden 
sense of freedom — freedom given by the woman whom he had 
so deeply wronged. His nerves, hitherto so firm, began to 
tremble, and covering his face with both hands, he burst into 
tears. When he looked up the two strangers had left the cell. 

The next morning, when Ross entered his counting-room, 
he found the turnkey talking with his partner. Just then 
Mr. Clark entered also, but with a harassed and anxious ex- 
pression of countenance. 


22 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


“ My friend,” said Ross, advancing toward him, “ you have 
come at the right moment to hear this man’s news from his 
own lips. I fear it will give you pain. No, I had better tell 
it myself ; he is a stranger, and knows nothing of your inter- 
est in the mother. Step this way, sir.” 

“ What is this ? For what would you prepare me ? Zu- 
lima — ” 

“ Is well, and becoming . reconciled to her loss ; but De 
Grainges — ” 

“ What of him, sir ? what of that unhappy man ?” inquired 
Mr. Clark, sternly. 

“ He has broken prison ; he escaped last night.” 

Mr. Clark staggered. The color left his lip, and he leaned 
heavily on the back of a chair. “ My poor, poor wife ! will 
her trials never have an end ?” he exclaimed wdtli deep feeling, 
and, turning hastily, he left the counting-room. 

‘ It will be some time before he acknowledges her now,” said 
Ross, in a low voice, to his partner. “ See how his step 
wavers.” 

“ That may waver, but his pride never will,” was the low 
reply. 

“ Never !” said Campbell. 

And he was right. Poor, poor Zulima ! 




POOR, POOR ZULIMA ! 


CHAPTER II. 

Trifles, light as air, 

Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong 
As proofs of holy writ. — Othello. 

It was spring-time in the South — that rich, bright season 
more luxurious in foliage and profuse in fragrance than our 
warm and mellow summers ever are. The orange-trees were 
all in flower ; carnations blushed warm and glowing upon the 
garden banks ; the grass was mottled with tiny blossoms, gor- 
geous and sweet as the air they breathed. All around the 
house which Zulima occupied was hedged in with honey- 
suckles and prairie-roses, that sheltered the grounds and leap- 
ed up here and there among the magnolia-trees, lacing them 
together in festoons and arcades of fantastic beauty. 

Poor, poor Zulima ! With this beautiful paradise to wander 
in, with the sweet air, the warm sky, and all that world of 
flowers, how unhappy she was ! Alone — utterly alone ! — her 
child slept in the bosom of another ; her husband had been 
months away in the far North ; an unacknowledged wife, a 
bereaved parent, how could she choose but weep? Weeks 
had gone by and no letter reached her ; at first her husband 
had written every day ; and with his letters, eloquent of love, 
lying against her heart, she could not be wholly miserable ; 
thinking of him she sometimes forgot to mourn for her child. 
At first she had been greatly distressed by the impediments 
which the flight of De Grainges had multiplied against the ac- 
knowledgment of her marriage, but this event had in no de- 
gree shaken the holy trust which that young heart placed in 
the object of its love. Singularly unambitious in her desires, 
but impetuous in feeling, she only felt the continued secrecy 
maintained regarding her marriage, because it separated her 
from the babe she had learned to love so intensely. True, it 
served as a restraint upon her husband, and frequently de- 


24 


MYRA, TIIE CIIILD OP ADOPTION. 


prived her of liis presence, but with her imaginative nature, 
the slight romance of this privacy only served to keep her 
affections more vivid and her fancy more restless. She was 
all impulse, all feeling, and sometimes, like a caged bird, she 
grew wild and restive under the restraints that necessity had 
placed upon her. 

Weeks went by, one after another, and now Zulima grew 
wild with vague fears. Why was he silent ? where could he 
be wandering thus to forget her so completely ? Her nights 
were sleepless ; her eyes grew bright and wild with feverish 
anxiety. That young heart was in every way prepared for 
the poison which was to be poured into it drop by drop, till 
jealousy, that most fierce and bitter of all the passions, should 
break forth in its might and change her whole being. 

Zulima had gone forth alone, not into the garden to sigh 
among its wilderness of blossoms, but away, with an aching 
heart and pale forehead, to suffer among the wild nooks of 
the neighboring hollows. Here nature started to life in harsh- 
er beauty, and sent forth her sweets with a sort of rude way- 
wardness, forming a contrast to the voluptuous air and over 
cultivation that closed in her home, as it were, from the rough 
and true things of the world. 

Another day was to be passed in that agony of impatience 
which none but those of a highly imaginative nature nan ever 
dream of— a weary night had been spent, the morning had 
come — surely, surely that day must bring a letter from the 
absent one. 

The air of her chamber — that chamber where her child had 
slept in her bosom, where he had been so often — she would 
not wait there ; all the associations were so vivid, they goaded 
her on to keener impatience. She could not draw a deep 
breath in that room, thinking of him and it. 

So, as I have said, Zulima stole forth and wandered away 
where all was wild as her own feelings, and a thousand times 
more tranquil. Ross had promised her to return very early 
from the city that day, when he hoped — the villain could not 
look into her eyes as he said it — when he hoped to bring a 
letter that would make his sweet guest smile again. 

Zulima knew a place near the highway which led to the 
city, and yet sheltered from any traveler that might 


ANXIETY. 


25 


pass, by the broken banks of a rivulet. Thick trees fell over 
it, ancl in some places the water was completely embowered 
by their branches. She could hear the tread of a horse from 
the spot, should one pass up from the city ; and so, with a 
cheek that kindled and a heart that leaped to each sound, the 
young creature sat down to wait. To wait ! oh, how hard a 
task for her untamed spirit, her eager wishes ! Never till her 
marriage with Mr. Clark had Zulima’s vivid nature been fully 
aroused ; never before had she been capable of the exquisite 
joy, the intense suffering that marked every stage of her at- 
tachment to that lofty and singular man. As she sat then by 
the lonely brook, the young creature gave herself up to a 
reverie that embraced all her life, for life with her seemed to 
have commenced only since she had met him. She drew 
forth his letters and read them again and again ; tears blinded 
her sometimes, but she swept them away with her fingers, 
and read on, kissing here and there a line that spoke most 
eloquently to her heart. She came to the last letter ; that 
was more ardent in its language, and warmer in its expression 
of love, than any of the others had been. "Why was this the 
lgst ? What had happened to check a pen so eloquent, to 
chill a heart so warm ? Was he dead ? This was Zulima’s 
thought ; she never doubted his faith or distrusted his honor 
for a single moment. When the serpent jealousy reaches 
a heart like hers, it comes with a fling, striking his fang sud- 
denly and at once. Zulima was not jealous, but that fierce 
pain lay coiled close by her heart, ready to make a leap that 
should envenom her whole being. More than once Zulima 
had started from her seat at some slight sound, which proved 
to be only a bird rising from the overhanging bank, or a rab- 
bit leaping across the thick sward, and thus, between hope and 
despondency, dreams and thoughts of the stern real, the time 
crept by till noon. A wooden bridge scarcely lifted above 
the water, spanned the brook only a few yards from where 
Zulima was sitting. Here the bank fell abruptly, giving de- 
scent to a pretty cascade half swept by a sheet of pendant 
willow-branches. Their delicate shadows, broken with long 
gleams of sunshine falling aslant the water, told Zulima that 
the time of Ross’s return was fast drawing near. Now she 
became cruelly restless. Like some bright spirit sent down 


20 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


to trouble the waters at her feet, she wandered along the 
broken bank, gathered quantities of wild-flowers but to cast 
them away at the least noise, and frightening the ground- 
birds from their nests with reckless inattention to their cries, 
always listening, and half the time holding her breath with 
impatient longing for something to break the entire solitude 
that encompassed her. 

It came at last — the distant tread of a horse — more than 
one — Zulima’s quick ear detected that in an instant. Still she 
could not be mistaken in the hoof-tread ; she had heard it a 
hundred times when her heart was beating tumultuously as 
then, but without the sharp anxiety that now sent the blood 
from her cheek and lips while she listened. Ross had ridden 
her husband’s horse to the city that day, and she would have 
been sure of his approach though a troop of cavalry had 
blended its tramp with the well-known tread. 

Zulima started from her motionless attitude, and springing 
up the bank, stood sheltered by the willow-branches, waiting 
for Ross to pass the bridge, when she would demand her let- 
ter. There she stood, trembling with keen impatience, eager 
and yet afraid of the sharp disappointment that might follow. 

How leisurely those two horsemen rode toward the bridge ! 
They were conversing earnestly, and the animals they rode 
moved close together, as if the riders were intent on some 
subject to which they feared giving full voice even in that 
profound solitude. They crossed the bridge at a walk, and 
without seeming quite conscious how it happened, the two 
men checked their horses close by the wdllows, and continued 
their conversation. 

With one foot strained back and the other just lifted from 
the turf, ready to spring forward, Zulima had watched them 
coming, but somehow her heart sunk as they drew near, and 
without knowing it, she allowed that eager foot to sink heav- 
ily on the turf again, and shrinking timidly within her shelter, 
she waited with a beating heart for the conversation to be 
checked, that she might come forward without intrusion. 

“ Zulima !” they had used that name once, twice, before her 
agitation permitted the fact to convey any impression to her 
mind. But with that name was coupled another that would 
almost have aroused her heart from the apathy of death itself. 


BAFFLED IIOFE — THE ENVELOPE. 


27 


“ We must convey it to her gradually; she must be sub- 
dued by degrees,” said Ross, smoothing the mane of his horse 
with one hand. 

“ Yes,” replied the other — the same man who had accom- 
panied Ross on his visit to De Grainges’ cell — “ with her inex- 
perience and impetuous temper,- there is no judging what 
extravagance she might enact. She might even start off in 
search of him, and then — ” 

Here a sensation of faintness came over Zulima, and she 
lost a few words. When the mist cleared from her brain, 
-Ross was speaking. 

“ He would, not see her. You do not know the man — 
see !” 

Ross took a letter from his pocket, and the two held it be- 
tween them, while Ross once or twice pointed out a paragraph 
with his finger and commented on it in a voice so low that 
Zulima could only gather what he said from the expression 
of his face. 

The first words that she could distinguish were : 

“ This silence has already driven her wild ; you will have 
a fine time of it when she hears this gossip about a rival.” 

“ It may not reach her ; indeed, how can it ?” 

“ These things always reach head-quarters sooner or later,” 
was the reply, so far as it reached Zulima, for that moment 
the horse which Ross rode became tired of inaction and shied 
around suddenly ; his rider with difficulty secured the letter, 
which was crushed in liis hand, as he hastened to draw the 
curb, while an envelope, which had contained it, fluttered to 
the ground. 

“ Let it go, let it go. I have all that is important,” cried 
Ross, checking his companion, who was about to dismount, 
and reining in his impatient steed with difficulty. 

The next instant they were both out of sight. 

Scarcely had they gone, when Zulima sprang from her cov- 
ert and seized the envelope. It was her husband’s writing, 
addressed to Ross, the post-mark Philadelphia — a letter from 
her husband and not. to her ! Zulima held her breath ; 
she looked wildly around, as if in search of something that 
could explain this mystery ; then her eyes fell to the writing 
again. Tears, that seemed half fire, flashed down upon tho 


28 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


paper ; lier lips began to quiver, she covered the fragment of 
paper with passionate kisses, and then cast it from her, ex- 
claiming wildly, “ Not to me — not to me !” 

Zulima returned home that day as she had never done be- 
fore. The slow, creeping pace, so eloquent of depression and 
baffled hope, that had previously marked her return home, 
was exchanged for a hurried tread and excited demeanor. 
She was fully aroused to a sense of wrong, to a knowledge 
that some mystery existed which involved her own future. 
All her suspicions were vague and wildly combined with such 
facts as lay before her, but not the less powerful and engrossing. 

She found Ross in the hall, standing by the back-door, 
which opened to the garden, and talking to his traveling com- 
panion. The conference was checked as she came up, and 
she heard Ross say, quickly, “ Hush ! hush ! she is here !” 
Then the two stepped out and sauntered slowly along the 
garden-walk. Zulima followed then* footsteps, and with the 
wild fire of excitement burning in her cheeks and eyes. 

Ross turned to meet her. His look was calm, his voice 
compassionate. 

“We have heard nothing. There was no letter,” he said, 
interpreting the question that hung on her lips. 

“ No letter to any one ?” 

Ross looked at her keenly. It was a strange question, and 
startled him. Could the young creature suspect that he was 
in correspondence with her husband? She might conjecture, 
but could not know. With this thought he answered her : 

“He seems to have forgotten all his friends, for even upon 
business Mr. Clark communicates with no one.” 

Zulima parted her lips to answer, but checking herself, she 
turned away and went to her room. Her previous distrust 
of Ross was fully confirmed by the false answer that he had 
given ; henceforth she resolved to act for herself. 

There was a storm that night ; the orange-trees and the 
thick lime-groves were swept by a hurricane that rocked the 
old mansion house like a cradle. The rain came down in 
torrents, dashing against the windows, and sweeping out with 
the wind in waves of dusky silver. All night long the light- 
ning and the winds wrangled and caroused around the house, 
kindling up the chamber of Zulima every other moment with 


THE STORM. 


29 


a torrent of white flame. She was writing — always writing, 
or with impatient hands tearing up that which she had done, 
dissatisfied that language could not be made more eloquent. 
She lifted her pale face as the lightning came in, sweep- 
ing over her loosened hair and her long white robe, and long- 
ed to dip her pen in the flame, that it might bum the feelings 
that were heaving her bosom upon the paper, and kindle like 
feelings in the soul of her husband. Sometimes the lightning 
found tears upon her cheek, trickling down from her long 
eyelashes and raining over her paper in torrents that would 
have quenched the fiery words she so longed to write; some- 
times it found a smile parting her lips, and a gleam of ineffable 
affection glowing in her eyes. Changeful as the storm was 
that beautiful face, where the tumult of her feelings was writ- 
ten plainly as the tempest could be traced upon the sky. 

At last Zulima became wholly absorbed in that which she 
was writing. Her pen flew across the paper, her eyes grew 
luminous with ardent light. She no longer startled at some 
new outbreak of the storm ; when the lightning flashed over 
her, she only wrote the faster, as if inspired by the flame. A 
great magnolia-tree near the window, with all its garniture of 
leaves, its massive branches and broad white blossoms, was 
uprooted and hurled down upon the house, shaking it furious- 
ly in every timber. That instant Zulima was placing her 
name to the letter, which in all this whirl of the elements she 
had written to her husband. She dropped the pen with a 
scream, . and darted toward the window. The sash was 
broken and choked up by a great branch of the magnolia, 
through whose dark leaves and white blossoms, crushed and 
broken together, the lightning shot like a storm of lurid ar- 
rows. The broken glass, the rent foliage, white and green, 
fell around Zulima as she thrust aside the massive bough with 
both hands, and looked forth. It was completely uptorn, that 
fine old tree ! The fresh earth, matted to its roots, rose high 
in the air, dripping with rain, and its great trunk crushed the 
wicker garden-seat into atoms, where she and her husband 
had sat together the evening before his departure. Heart-sick 
and faint, Zulima drew back. The letter to her husband lay 
upon the table, and near it the taper flared, throwing a jet of 
flame over the delicate writing. 


30 


MYRA, THE CHILD OE ADOPTION. 


Pale and trembling, for the fall of that old magnolia had 
terrified her like a prophecy, Zulima folded the paper and di- 
rected it. But how her hand shook ; the name of her hus- 
band was blurred as she wrote it, and with a deep sigh she 
took up the sealing-wax and held it in the half-extinguished 
light. Her hand was very unsteady, and a drop or two of 
the hot wax fell upon her palm and wrist, burning into the 
delicate flesh like a blood-spot. Still, in her sad preoccupa- 
tion, Zulima felt nothing of the pain, but sealed her letter just 
as her light flared out, and sat down in the gloom to wait for 
morning. 

Two weary hours she spent in that dark stillness, for the 
hurricane haying done its work, passed off as suddenly as it 
had arisen, leaving the night hushed and still, like a giant 
lying down to rest after a hard 'fight. 

When the morning came, with its sweet breath and rosy 
light, Zulima arose. Hastily binding up her hair, and chang- 
ing her dress, she took up her letter and left the house. All 
around the old mansion was littered with vestiges of the 
storm. She was obliged to make her way through branches 
heavy with drenched blossoms and young fruit ; fragments of 
lusty vines that had cast their grateful shade around the dwelling 
but a day before ; oak boughs wrenched away from the neigh- 
boring groves, and masses of torn foliage that lay heaped upon 
the door-step and along the walk, she was compelled to trav- 
erse on her passage to the highway. 

Scarcely heeding the ruin around her, Zulima walked on 
toward the city ; her delicate slippers were speedily saturated 
with wet, and at another time that tenderly-nurtured frame 
must have yielded to the discomfort and fatigue of her unusual 
exertion. But she had an object to attain — an object which, 
depended wholly upon herself ; and when a woman’s heart 
and soul is in an effort, when was her strength known to 
give way ? The old cathedral clock was striking six when 
Zulima entered New Orleans ; a few negroes were abroad, go- 
ing to or from the markets, and around the wharves arose a 
confused sound as of a hive of bees preparing to swarm. At 
another time Zulima might have been startled at finding her- 
self the only white female abroad in a great city, but now she 
only drew the folds of black lace more closely over her bonnet 


THE DREAM — SUSPICION. 


31 


and walked on. With her own hands she mailed the letter 
which conveyed, as it were, her sonl to the husband who 
seemed to have forgotten her. A sigh broke up from her 
heart as the folded paper slid from her hand into the yawning 
mail-bag, and then, with a feeling of relief bom of her own 
exertions, she turned away. 

“ I have trusted no one ; lie will get my letter now,” she 
murmured over and over again during her rapid walk home, 
and with that vivid reaction so common to imaginative na- 
tures, she became almost happy in the sweet hopes that this 
reflection aroused to life again. Oh, it is so difficult for the 
young to feel absolute despair or absolute resignation ; both 
are the fruit of good or evil old age. 

Unmolested, as she had left it, Zulima stole back to her 
chamber. Weary, and yet with a heart more free than it had 
been for weeks, she flung off her damp garments, and lying 
down, slept sweetly for an hour. Zulima dreamed that she 
was sitting with her husband beneath the great magnolia- 
tree ; her babe lay upon the turf laughing gleefully, and, with 
its little hands in the air, grasping after the summer insects as 
they flashed overhead. All at once a whirlwind rushed out, 
as it were, from the depths of the sky, overwhelming her 
with its violence. She strove to reach her child, but fell upon 
her face to the earth, shrieking wildly to her husband to save 
her and it. Then fell upon her one of those dark, fantastic 
clouds that make our dreams so fragmentary. She felt the 
magnolia upheave under her, and scatter down the fresh earth 
from its roots till she was half buried. Husband and child 
both were gone, leaving her prostrate and almost dead, to bat- 
tle her way through the storm alone — alone ! Zulima awoke 
with these words upon her lips. 

It was but a dream. Louisa had entered the chamber and 
was examining the wet garments that her mistress had flung 
off, muttering suspiciously to herself as she saw the soiled 
slippers and other evidences of an early walk. 

“ What am de meaning ob all dis ? What can de missus 
be about ?” she muttered, casting down the raiment that had 
excited her distrust. The candle almost burned out, the drops 
of wax on the table, torn fragments of paper on the floor, 
were new objects of comment. The tom paper was all writ- 


32 


MYRA, THE CHILD OP ADOPTION. 


ten upon, and had been gathered up in a grasp and wrenched 
asunder. The pieces were large, and might be easily com- 
bined. The negress could not read, but, with the quick cun- 
ning of her race, she saw that something unusual had hap- 
pened, with which these fragments were connected, so gather- 
ing the papers in her apron, she bore them to her master, 
whose spy she was. 

It -was the noise that Louisa made going out which aroused 
Zulima from her wretched vision. The young creature started 
up, thanking God that it was but a dream. In moving about 
the room, she approached a window opening upon the garden 
just in time to see Ross follow her woman, Louisa, into the 
little slave -dwelling which we described in our last chapter. 

Zulima lingered by the window. It was half an hour be- 
fore Ross came forth again ; he was followed by the slave 
woman, and stood conversing with her some time in one of 
the retired walks. Soon after, the young man who had been 
Ross’s companion from the city the previous day came up, 
and Louisa seemed to be dismissed. Still the two men con- 
versed earnestly together, and, after a time, slowly retired into 
the slave-dwelling. 

Since the previous day Zulima had grown suspicious, and 
she remarked all these movements with keen interest. Well 
she might, for that day and hour, in the low slave-dwelling, 
was written a letter destined to cast black trouble upon her 
whole life. There, two fiends, fashioned like men, sat down 
and concocted a foul slander against that innocent young 
woman which was to cling around her for years, and which 
her full strength might struggle against in vain. The very 
mail which carried out Zulima’s passionate and tender epistle 
to her husband, bore also a wicked slander framed by these 
two base men. The pleading words, the endearing expres- 
sions, that she had folded up fresh from her innermost soul, 
that he might know how truly she loved him, went jostling 
side by side with the fiendish assertion that she, Zulima Clark, 
had been unfaithful to his love. * 

And these two letters reached the husband in one package 
lying close to each other, lie read the slander first. 

Zulima waited, but no answer ever came to her letter.- 
Week after week she lived upon that painful hope which 


THE BURIAL-PLACE. 


33 


hangs upon the morrow, and still hope mocked her. Then 
she grew desperate. One day, when Ross came back from 
the city empty-handed as usual, Zulima had left his house 
with the avowed intention of seeking her husband in the 
North. 

“ Let her go,” said the fiend, coolly folding the letter she 
had left behind. “ The mail travels faster than she can ; my 
pretty bird shall find all things prepared for her coming.” 

Again Ross sat down and wrote to the husband of Zulima, 
telling him that she fled from his house at night to escape the 
vigilant watch which had been placed upon her actions. The 
letter reached its destination and performed its evil work. 


Zulima had taken passage for the North, but the brig must 
lie at its wharf a few hours, and the unhappy young creature 
was far too restless for confinement in the close cabin. A 
yearning desire possessed her to go and search for her infant. 
Though enjoined to caution and strict secresy, the place of 
her child’s residence had been intrusted to her, and she had 
found means to see it unsuspected, from time to time, before 
her husband’s departure. Now, when she was going in agony 
of spirit to seek the father, she could not depart without em- 
bracing his child once more, and, with its little hands around 
ber neck, praying God to bless her mission. Urged by these 
Keen desires, Zulima threw a scarf around her, and drawing 
ilown her vail, entered the streets of New Orleans. The 
bouse where her child lived was in the suburbs, and she was 
obliged to cross the city. With a quick step she threaded 
the streets, heedless of observation and only desirous of reach- 
ing her child before the brig was ready to sail. 

Was it fate, or was it that sublime intuition that belongs to 
the higher order of feelings, which led poor Zulima by one of 
those large Catholic burial-places in New Orleans which seem 
to open the way to eternity through a paradise of flowers ? 
It must have been the spiritual essence in her nature, for as 
the young mother passed this beautiful place of death, she 
looked eagerly through the gates, and something impelled her 
to enter. A wildnemess of tombs, draped and garmented with 
vines all in blossom, and shrubs that exhaled perfume from 
every leaf, lay before her, and at that moment death looked so 


34 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


pleasant to poor Zulima that she longed to lie down and let 
her heart stop beating where so many had found quiet rest. 
These reflections brought tears to her eyes; she felt them 
dropping fast beneath her vail, and entered the inclosure that 
no one might witness her grief. Slowly and sadly she wand- 
ered on, forgetful of her purpose and possessed of a vague 
idea that her errand led no farther. A strange and dreamy 
sensation crept over her, the vigor of her limbs gave way, and 
sweeping the purple clusters of a passion flower from one of 
the marble slabs, she sat down. Zulima put aside her vail, 
and began to read the inscription upon the tomb while list- 
lessly passing her finger through the deeply-cut letters. 

It was an infant’s tomb. A child eighteen months old lay 
beneath the marble. Eighteen months — that was the age of 
her child, little Myra. She started up. It seemed as if her 
weight upon the marble could injure the little sleeper. Care- 
fully drawing the passion-vine over the stone again, she turn- 
ed away and was about to depart. But that instant there 
came bounding along the vista of a neighboring walk a young 
child, evidently rejoicing over its escape from some person 
who might have controlled its actions. In and out through 
the flowery labyrinth it darted, its chestnut curls floating oil 
the wind, and its blue sash, loose at one end, sweeping the 
tombs at every turn. The child, at last, felt evidently quite 
secure from pursuit, for, leaning forward upon one tiny foot, 
she peered roguishly through the branches and burst into a 
clear ringing laugh that sounded amid the stillness like the 
sudden gush of a fountain. 

Through and through Zulima’s heart rang that silvery 
shout ; eye, lip, and cheek lighted up to the sound ; she reach- 
ed forth her arms — “ Myra ! Myra !” 

Tiie child heard her name and turned like a startled fawn, 
still laughing, but afraid that the black nurse had found her. 
When she saw only a beautiful woman with eyes brimful of 
tears, and outstretched hands, the laugh fled from her lips, and 
fixing her large brown eyes wonderingly on the strange face for 
a moment, she drew timidly toward the tomb by which Zu- 
lima stood. 

“ My child ! my own dear child !” broke from the lips of 
that young mother, and sinking upon her knees, she snatched 


A STRANGE MEETING. 


35 


tlie little girl to her bosom, covering her lips and forehead 
with kisses. 

“ Do you love me ? Myra, do you love me ?” she cried, 
holding back the face of the infant between both her trembling 
hands, and gazing fondly on it through her tears ; “ Do you 
love me, Myra ?” 

At first the little girl was startled by the passionate tender- 
ness of her mother, and she struggled to get away from the 
bosom that heaved so tumultuously against her form ; but, as 
this touching cry for affection broke from Zulima’s lips, the 
child ceased to struggle, and lifting her clear eyes with a look 
of wondering pity, she clasped her little hands over her 
mother’s neck, and to her trembling lips pressed that little 
rosy mouth. 

“ Don’t cry so, I do love you !” lisped the child, in its 
sweet imperfect language. 

These pretty words unlocked a flood of tender grief in the 
mother’s heart. She arose, with the child in her arms, and 
sat down upon the tomb. Smiles now broke through her 
tears, and during fifteen minutes it seemed to Zulima as if she 
had passed through that place of tombs into paradise, so sweet 
was the love that flooded her heart with every lisping tone of 
her child. But for the poor mother there was no lasting hap- 
piness. "While her bosom was full of these sweet maternal 
feelings, there came tearing through the shrubbery a negro 
woman, panting with haste, and shouting in a coarse voice 
the name of little Myra. 

“ We must part, my child !” murmured Zulima, turning pale 
as the woman caught sight of her charge from a tomb which 
she had mounted to command a view of the grounds, and 
with a degree of self-command that was wonderful even to 
herself, she arose and led the little girl forward. 

“ Oh, Miss Myra, Miss Myra i” cried the negress, snatching 
up the little girl and kissing her with a degree of eagerness 
that made poor Zulima shudder ; “ what should I have done 
if you had been lost in earnest ?” 

Myra struggled to get away, and held out her arms to Zu- 
lima. How pale the poor mother was ! Her eyes sparkled 
though at this proof of fondness in the child, and taking her 
from the woman, she kissed her forehead, and leading her a 


36 


MYRA, THE CHILD OP ADOPTION. 


little way off, bent down with, a hand upon those bright ring- 
lets, and called down a blessing from God upon her daughter. 
Ah ! these blessings, what holy things they are ! The sun- 
shine they pour forth, how certain it is to flow back to the 
source and fill it with brightness ! If “ curses are like chick- 
ens that always come home to roost,” are not blessings like 
the ringdoves that coo most tenderly in the nest that shelters 
their birth ? For many a day, while tossed upon the waters, 
Zulima was the happier for having seen and blessed her child. 


THE VILE LETTEli. 


37 


CHAPTER III. 

Oh, she was like a fawn, chased to the plain, 

Half blind with grief and mad with sudden pain. 

That plunges wildly in its first despair, 

To any copse that offers shelter there. 

It was near midsummer when one of the city postmen of Phil- 
adelphia entered a large warehouse in the business part of that 
city. He approached the principal desk with a bundle of papers 
and letters on one arm, from which he drew a single letter bear- 
ing the Hew Orleans post-mark. A young man who stood at 
the desk writing what appeared to be business notes, of which 
a pile, damp with ink, lay at his elbow, took the letter, and 
thrusting his pen back of one ear, prepared to open it. There 
was an appearance of great and even slovenly haste about this 
letter. The paper was folded unevenly. The wax had been 
dropped upon it in a rude mass, and was roughly stamped 
with a blurred impression which it would have been difficult 
to make out. The address was blotted, and every thing about 
it bore marks of rough haste. The young merchant broke 
open the seal with some trepidation, for the singular appear- 
ance of the letter surprised him not a little. He read half a 
dozen of the first lines, then looking over his shoulder as if 
afraid some one might see that which he had read, he turned 
his back to the desk and was soon wholly absorbed in the 
contents of the epistle. As he turned over the page, you 
would have seen the color gradually deepen upon his cheeks, 
and even flush up to the forehead, as if there was something 
in the epistle which did not altogether please him. After a 
little he folded the letter, compressing his lips the while, and 
fell into deep thought. The service which this letter required 
of him was one against which every honest feeling of his 
heart revolted ; but his worldly prospects, his hopes of ad- 
vancement in life, all depended upon the writer. Ross had 
been his friend ; had placed him in the Philadelphia branch 


38 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


of a great commercial house ; and to thwart one of his wishes 
might prove absolute ruin. 

J^oss had omitted in that epistle nothing that could persuade 
or reason into wrong. It was doubtful, he said, even if Clark 
ever had been married to Zulima ; or, being so, if he would 
not deem it a good service in his friends to relieve him of the 
obligations imposed by that union. Bitter and cruel were the 
accusations urged against that poor young wife ; and with his 
interests all with her enemies, joined to a lively desire to 
think ill of her, in order to justify his conduct to his own 
heart, this weak and cruel man yielded himself to become the 
tool of a deeper and far more unprincipled villain than him- 
self. Again and again he perused that letter, and at length 
put it carefully away in his breast-pocket, close to a heart 
which its evil folds were doomed to harden against the secret 
whisperings of a conscience that would not be entirely hushed. 

Perhaps, had James Smith been given time for after reflec- 
tion, he might have become shocked with the part that he was 
called upon to perform; but the letter which opened this wicked 
scheme to him had been delayed and carried in a wrong di- 
rection by the mail, and nearly two weeks had been thus lost 
after the time wdien it should have reached him. 

Smith had scarcely turned from his desk witli the evil letter 
in his bosom, when another man entered the -warehouse and 
placed a little rose-tinted note in his hand. A vague idea 
that this note had some connection with the slovenly epistle 
that he had just read took possession of him, before he broke 
the drop of pale-green wax that sealed it. 

The conjecture proved real — Zulima had written that note. 
She was in Philadelphia, and hoped through her husband’s 
protege to hear some news of him. Smith had no time for 
reflection ; he was called upon to 'act at once. He went to 
the hotel where Zulima was staying. Smith entered the hotel 
hurriedly, as one who has a painful task to accomplish and 
wishes it over. He was not villain enough to act with delib- 
eration, or with that crafty coldness which fitted Iloss so 
singularly for a domestic conspirator. When he found him- 
self in the presence of this helpless young mother ; when he 
gazed upon her beauty, dimmed — it is true, by all that she had 
suffered, but obtaining thereby a soft melancholy that was far 


A SECRET MARRIAGE. 


39 


more touching than the glow of youth in its full joy can ever 
be, — his heart smote him for the wrong it had meditated 
against her. He sat down by her side, trembling and almost 
as anxious as she was. 

“ My husband,” said Zulima, turning her eloquent eyes 
upon his downcast face; “you know him, sir — he is your 
friend ; tell me where he is to be found.” 

“ Your husband, madam ! of whom do you speak?” 

“ Of Mr. Clark — Daniel Clark — your benefactor and my 
husband,” said Zulima. 

“ Daniel Clark, lady ?” 

“ I wish to see him — I must see him — tell me where he is 
to be found.” Zulima was breathless with impatience ; her 
large eyes brightened, her cheeks took a faint color. She was 
determined that nothing should keep her from the presence of 
her husband. 

“ And you — you are the young lady that went South with 
him the last time he was here ?” said Smith, bending his eyes 
to the floor and faltering in his speech. 

“ Yes, I went with him — I was his wife !” 

Smith shook his head ; a faint smile crept over his mouth ; 
he seemed to doubt her assertion. 

Zulima saw it, and her face kindled with indignant passion. 
“ I am his wife !” she said. 

“ The marriage — was it not secret ? was it not almost with- 
out witness ?” 

“ Secret ? yes ; but not entirely without witnesses. I can 
prove my marriage.” 

“ You can prove that some ceremony took place ; but can 
you prove that it was a real marriage ceremony ? Indeed, 
have /you never had reason to doubt that it was such ?” 

“ Never, sir,” replied Zulima, turning pale, “ never 1” 

“ You were very young, very confiding,” replied Smith. 
“ Yet you had some experience in the perfidy of man : this 
should have made you cautious.” 

“ Oh, my experience ! it had been bitter — terrible 1” mur- 
mured Zulima, clasping fier hands, and gazing on the face of 
her visitor with a look of wild excitement. 

“ And yet you trusted again !” 

Zulima stood up ; her face grew white as death. “ Do you 


40 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


mean to say, sir, that my husband — that Daniel Clark deceived 
me like the other ?” 

“ I mean to say nothing,” replied Smith ; “ nothing, save 
that from my heart I pity you, sweet lady. So much beauty, 
so trusting ; "who could help pitying you ?” 

“ You pity me ? Oh, Father of mercies !” cried the excited 
young creature, bending like a reed and raising her locked 
hands to her eyes ; “ if this thing should be true !” She fell 
upon a chair ; her slight figure waved to and fro in the agony 
of her doubts. 

“ Has he written — did he send for you ?” questioned Smith, 
steeling himself against her grief. 

“-Ho, no !” 

“ Is he aware of your coming ?” 

“ Ho ; I shall surprise him ; I wished to surprise him !” 
cried the the wretched young creature, dropping her hands. 

“ I am afraid you will surprise him, and unpleasantly, too !” 
said Smith. 

Zulima turned her dry eyes upon him ; her lips parted, but 
she had no power to utter the questions that arose in her 
heart. A thousand black doubts possessed her. “ Why — 
why— ?” It was all she could say. 

Smith hesitated ; he was reluctant to consummate the last 
act of villainy required of him. It seemed like striking down 
a lamb, w T hile its soft, trusting eyes were fixed upon his. But 
he had gone too far, he could not recede now. 

“ It is rumored,” he said — “ it is rumored that Mr. Clark is 
soon to be married !” 

A sort of spasmodic smile parted Zulima’s pale lips, till her 
white teeth shone through. She did not attempt to speak, 
but sat perfectly still gazing upon her visitor. 

“ Had your marriage been real, Mr. Clark would not thus 
openly commit himself.” 

“ Where is Mr. Clark ?” said Zulima, sharply, and starting, 
as if from a dream. 

“ He is in Baltimore now.” 

“ And — and the lady ?” 

“ She, too, is in Baltimore.” 

“ And I — I will go there also !” 

“ You ! and after that which you know ?” 


THE PUBLIC PARLOR. 


41 


“ If these tilings are true, I will have them from the lips of 
my — of Daniel Clark. If they are not true — Oh, Father of 
heaven ! then will his wife lie down and die at his feet — die 
of sorrow that she has ever doubted him.” 

Smith was startled ; he had not anticipated this resolute 
strength in a creature so young and child-like. Did she see 
Daniel Clark, he knew that all was lost to those whose inter- 
est it was to keep the husband and wife asunder. He at- 
tempted to dissuade Zulima from her plan, but this he saw 
only excited her suspicion without in the slightest degree 
changing her. All the answer that she made to his arguments 
was, “ I will see my husband : I must have proof of these 
things !” 

Smith would have urged his objections further, but they 
were interrupted. The room in w T hich they sat was a parlor 
to which others might claim admission. Just then the door 
opened, and a young gentleman entered with the easy and 
confidential air of an old acquaintance. He cast a glance at Zu- 
lima, seemed surprised by the terrible agitation so visible in 
her face, and then fixed his penetrating eyes searchingly upon 
Smith. 

“ You do not seem well,” he said, approaching Zulima, and 
Smith could detect that in his voice which ought to have 
startled Zulima long before. “ Has any thing gone amiss ?” 
and he cast a stern look on Smith. 

“ I am not well 1” said Zulima, and tears came into her eyes. 

“ But you seem worse than ill — you look troubled.” 

“ Zulima lifted her eyes up with a painful smile, but made 
no answer. 

The young man looked distressed ; he stood a moment be- 
fore Zulima, and then walking toward a window, began to 
drum on the panes with his fingers, now and then casting 
furtive glances toward the sofa where Zulima and Smith were 
sitting. 

Smith arose to go. A new gleam of light had broken upon 
him — he saw and understood more than that fated young 
creature had even guessed at. 

“ Then you are determined to undertake this journey ?” he 
said, in a low voice. 

“ Yes 1” 


42 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION 


“ When will you set out ?” 

“ To-morrow !” 

“ Alone ?” 

Zulima unconsciously glanced toward the young man ; he 
had been very kind to her, and it seemed hard to start off 
utterly alone. 

“ I don’t know,” she faltered ; “yes, I shall take the journey 
alone.” 

“ Your health seems delicate, you are so young,” urged 
Smith, reading her thoughts and hoping that she would be 
guided by the first imprudent impulse. 

“ I am young — I am not well — but I shall go alone,” she 
answered, with gentle firmness. 

The young man at the window seemed restless. He walk- 
ed toward a table, and taking up two or three books, cast 
them back again with an air of impatience. Smith observed 
this, and smiled quietly within himself, as he went out. Zu- 
lima saw nothing : she only knew that she was very, very 
wretched, and casting her arms over the back of the sofa, 
buried her face upon them and groaned in bitter anguish. 

Zulima was so lost in the agony of her feelings, that 
she did not know when the young man placed himself by her 
side. She was quite unconscious of his approach till her 
hand was in his, and his voice uttered her name in tones that 
made her nerves -thrill from head to foot. Tenderness had 
given to that voice an intonation startlingly like the low tones 
of Daniel Clark when love most softened his proud nature. 

She started and looked wildly at the young man, her hand 
trembling in his — her lips parted in a half smile — the delusion 
had not quite left her. 

“Zulima, what is it that troubles you? Oh, if you only knew, 
if you could but guess, how — how it wrings my heart tc see 
you thus l ^ What has the man been saying to wound you r” 

“ To wDrnid me ?” repeated Zulima, recovering from the 
sort of dream into which his voice had cast her, and drawing 
her hand away. “ Oh, everybody says things to wound me, 
I think !” 

“ But I never have ” 

“ No, I believe not,” replied Zulima, listlessly ; “ I believe 
not.” 


DECLARATION ON LOVE. 


43 


“ And never will,” urged the young man, regarding her with 
a look of deep tenderness. 

“ I don’t know,” was the faint reply, and Zulima’s face fell 
back on her folded arms again. 

The young man arose and began to pace up and down the 
room ; many a change passed over his features meanwhile, 
and he cast his eye from time to time upon the motionless 
figure of Zulima, with an expression that revealed all the hid- 
den love, the wild devotion with which he regarded her. He 
sat down again and took her passive hand. She did not at- 
tempt to withdraw it. She did not even seem to know that 
it was in his. 

“ Do you know how I love you — how, with my whole life 
and strength, I worship you, Zulima ?” he said. “ There is 
nothing on earth that I would not do, could it give you a mo- 
ment’s happiness.” 

Zulima slowly unfolded her arms, and lifting her head, 
looked earnestly in his face with her eyes. She did not seem 
to understand him. 

“ Oh, you must have seen how I love you,”_ he said r 4)as- 
sionately. 

Zulima smiled — oh, what a mocking smile ! how full of 
wild anguish it was ! “ Another !” she said ; “ so now an- 

other loves me.” 

“ No human being ever loved as I love you, Zulima,” said 
the young man, in that pure, sweet voice, which had so af- 
fected her before. 

“ That is a marvel,” said Zulima, with a bitter smile. “ Oth- 
ers have loved me so well. You do not know holy others 
have loved me.” 

“ I do not wish to know any thing except how T I can make 
you happier than you are, Zulima.” 

“ If you wish to make me happy, do not even mention love 
to me again. The very w r ord makes me faint,” said Zulima. 
“ I am ill— I suffer. Do not, I pray you, talk this way to me. 
I can not bear it.” 

“I will say nothing that can distress you,” replied the 
young man gently, but with a look of grief. 

Zulima reached forth her hand. It was cold ancl trembling. 
“ Farewell !” she said, very kindly ; “ I shall go away to- 
morrow. Farewell !” 


44 


MYHA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


He would not release lier hand. 

“ You are not going far — you will return in a few days ? 
Promise me that you are not saying farewell forever.” 

“ I do not know — the Father in heaven only knows what 
will become of me ; but you have been kind to me — very. 
You have respected my unprotected lot. You did not know 
how wrong it was to love me. I can not blame you. “When 
I say farewell thus, I much fear that it is to the only true 
friend that I have in the world. You could not wish me to 
feel more regret than I do. Is it not casting away gill the 
unselfish kindness — all the real friendship that I have known 
for a long, long time ?” 

“ But this love — this idolatry, rather ?” persisted the young 
man ; “ must it be forever hopeless ? Shall I never see you 
again ?” 

“ It is wrong, therefore should be hopeless,” replied Zulima. 
“You do not know what trouble it would bring upon you.” 

“ Why wrong ? — why should it bring trouble upon me ?” 

“ Should we ever meet again, you will know. Everybody 
will know why it is wrong for you to love me. How I must 
go.” 

Zulima drew away her hand, using a little gentle force; 
and while the young man was striving to fathom the meaning 
of her words, she opened the door and disappeared. 

Every way was poor Zulima beset. The false position in 
which the concealment of her marriage had placed her, made it- 
self cruelly felt at all times. She had taken a long journey, alone 
and entirely unprotected. Young and beautiful — to all appear- 
ance single — she was naturally exposed to all those attentions 
that a creature so lovely and unprotected was sure to receive, 
even against her will. In the young man whom she had j ust 
left, those attentions gradually took a degree of tender interest 
which, but for her state of anxious preoccupation, she must 
have observed long before, as others less interested had not 
failed to do. But she had literally given the devotion, so ap- 
parent to others, no thought. Knowing herself to be bound 
by the most solemn ties to the man who seemed to have for 
gotten her, she never reflected that others knew nothing of 
this, or that she might become the object of affectionate, nay, 
passionate regard, such as the man had just declared. 


IX BALTIMORE. 


45 


Now it only served to add another pang to the bitterness 
of her grief; heart- wounded, neglected as she had been, it 
was not in human nature to be otherwise than flattered and 
very grateful for devotion which soothed her pride, and which 
in its possessor was innocent and honorable. But even these 
feelings gained but a momentary hold upon her ; they were 
followed by regret and that shrinking dread which every new 
source of excitement is sure to occasion where the heart has 
been long and deeply agitated. She went away then with a 
new cause of grief added to those that had so fatally oppressed 
her. 


Zulima reached Baltimore in the night. Weary with travel 
md faint with anxiety, she took a coach at the stage-house 
md went in search of the hotel where she learned that her 
husband was lodged. As she drove up to the hotel a private 
carriage stood at the entrance ; a negro in livery was in the 
seat, and another stood with the carriage door in his hand, 
watching for some one to come down the steps; the door 
epened, and by the light that streamed through, Zulima saw 
her husband richly dressed as if for some assembly. One 
white glove was held loose in his hand with an embroidered 
opera-cap, which he put upon his head as he came quickly 
down the steps. 

Zulima was breathless ; she leaned from the window of her 
hackney-coach, and would have called to him aloud, but her 
tongue clove to her mouth ; she could only gaze wildly on 
him, as just touching the step of his carnage with one foot 
he sprung lightly in. The door closed with a noise that went 
through Zulima’s heart like an arrow. She saw the negro 
spring up behind the carriage ; the lamps flashed by her eyes, 
and while every thing reeled before her, the coachman of her 
own humble hack had opened the door. 

“ No, no, I do not wish to get out,” she said, pointing to- 
ward the receding lamps with her finger. “ Mount again and 
follow that carriage.” 

Th'e man hastily closed the door, and mounting his seat, 
drove rapidly after Mr. Clark’s carriage. Zulima was now 
wild with excitement ; the blood seemed to leap through her 
heart— her cheeks burned like fire. She gasped for breath, 


40 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


when a turn in the streets took those carriage-lamps an instant 
from her sight. 

They came in sight of a fine old mansion-house, standing 
hack from the street and surrounded by tall trees ; an aristo- 
cratic and noble dwelling it was, with the lights gleaming 
tnrough its windows, and those rare old trees curtaining its 
walls with their black branches, now gilded and glowing with 
the golden flashes of light that came through all the windows. 
The house was evidently illuminated for a party — one of 
those pleasant summer-parties that are half given in the open 
air. A few lamps hung like stars along the thick branches 
that curtained the house, and glowed here and there through 
a honeysuckle arbor, or in a clump of bushes, just lightly 
enough to reveal the dewy green of the foliage, without break- 
ing up the quiet evening shadows that lay around them. Mr. 
Clark’s carriage stopped before this noble mansion, and Zulima 
saw him pass lightly into the deep old-fashioned portico while 
her vehicle was yet half a block off. 

i “ Do you wish to get out here ?” said the coachman, going 
again to the door ; “ the carriage that you ordered me to fol- 
low does not seem to be going any farther.” v 

“ I know, I see,” said Zulima ; “ not now, I will wait. 
Draw off to the opposite side of the street, and then we shall 
be in nobody’s way.” 

The man expressed no surprise at her strange orders, but 
drove back to the shadowy side of the street and waited, 
standing by the door a moment, to learn if she had any fur- 
ther directions to give. Zulima bent from the window ; she 
was terribly agitated and her voice trembled. 

“ Whose house is this ?” she said, hurriedly. 

The man told the owner’s name. It was one celebrated in 
the history of our country ; and ‘Zulima remembered with a 
pang that the daughters of that house were among the most 
lovely and beautiful women of America. Smith had' told her 
that her husband was about to be married. Was it in that 
stately old mansion house that she must search for a rival ? 
How her cheek burned, how her lip trembled, as she asked 
herself the question ! 

“ Did you know,” she said, addressing the man ; “ did you 
know the gentleman who just went in yonder ?” 


THE OLD POHTICO. 


47 


“ Oh yes, everybody here knows Mir Clark,” said the man. 

“ I guessed well enough where his carriage was driving to, 
When it started from the hotel. He is going to marry one 
of the young ladies ; at least the papers say so.” 

Zulima drew back into the carriage ; it seemed as if she 
would never breathe again ; she sat like a famished bird, gaz- 
ing on the house without the wish or power to move. 

There seemed to be a large party assembled ; gayly-dressed 
people were constantly gliding before the window, and she 
could see the gleam of rich wines and trays of fruit, as they 
Were borne to and fro by the attendants. Sometimes a couple 
Would saunter out into the deep old portico, where she could 
See more distinctly by the wreath of colored lamps, festooned 
with trumpet-flowers, roses, and honeysuckles that fell like a 
Curtain overhead. Zulima saw one couple after another glide 
into the flowery recess, and away again, as if the music that 
same pouring through doors and windows were too exciting 
e pv a prolonged tete-a-tete. Still she kept her eyes fixed upon 
the spot ; she was certain that Mr. Clark would be among 
those who haunted that flower nook, so like a cloud of butter- 
flies. She knew his tastes well. Sure enough, -while her 
eyes were fixed on the open doors, through which the back- 
ground of the portico was flooded with golden light, she saw 
Mr. Clark come slowly down the hall, not alone — oh, how she 
Jbad hoped for that — but with a beautiful woman leaning on 
his arm — leaning heavily with that air of languid dependence 
which so often marks the first development of passion. His 
head was bent, and he seemed to be addressing her in a low 
voice ; and though he smiled while speaking, Zulima could 
see that in repose his face was grave, almost sad. It only 
lighted up when those large blue eyes were lifted toward him. 
They sat down in the portico, and seemed to converse earn- 
estly— ten minutes— half an hour, and hours— thus long did 
the two sit side by side under that canopy of lighted blossoms, 
and then Zulima could watch them no longer ; a heavy faint- 
ness crept over her, and in a dull, low voice she asked the 
coachman to drive her back to the hotel 

Poor Zulima ! she hoped to see her husband alone in that 
portico, if it was only for one minute. How long, how pa- 
tiently had she waited, and that beautiful woman never left 
his side for a moment. It was verv cruel. 


48 MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 

When Zulima left her room early the next morning, she found 
Mr. Smith, who seemed to have just left the stage-coach. She 
knew him at once, and he recognized her with great cor 
diality. 

“ I have come,” he said, in a low, friendly voice — “ I have 
come in hopes of seeing you with Mr. Clark. He is in the 
hotel, I hear.” 

“ He is,” said Zulima. “ I saw him last night !” 

Mr. Smith turned pale ; hut there was a deep depression in 
Zulima’s voice and manner, that re-assured him the interview 
could not have been a happy one, to leave that cheek so hue- 
less, the eyes so heavy — he was not yet too late. 

“ I saw him,” said Zulima, “ but he did not know it ; to- 
day, within another hour, I shall know why he has treated 
me thus ; tell me how I can get a message conveyed to him.” 

“ I will convey it ; I will urge your cause.” 

“ Only tell him I am here ; I want no one to plead for me 
with to. Only do that, and I will thank you much.” 

“ I will do that, and more,” said Smith, bowing. 

What influence was it that kept Mr. Clark so wakeful on 
the night when Zulima, his young wife, slept beneath the 
same roof with himself? He knew nothing of her presence 
— he felt not the bitter tears that almost blistered her pale 
cheek, as she tried to stop thinking of him — the sobs that 
shook her frame till the bed trembled under it — none of them 
reached his ear. It was not any remembrance of the lovely 
young being who had hung upon his arm, and sat beside him 
in that flower-lit portico but a short time before : her beauty 
had pleased him, her conversation had wiled away a little of 
that time which was often spent in bitter thoughts, since he 
had begun to receive the letters of Ross and to yield credence 
to the reports regularly sent him of the estrangement and 
faithlessness of his young wife. 

She had fled now — fled from his friend’s roof, and come 
northward no doubt to obtain greater freedom, and escape the 
vigilance of those he had placed about her. Thus ran the 
last letter that Clark had received from his friend. 

Clark read the letter over, after he returned home that 
night, for something seemed constantly whispering of Zulima ; 
he could not drive her from his mind. It seemed to him a e 


THE LIAR. 


49 


if some great mistake had arisen, as if he had not read the 
letters of his friend aright. No ; when he perused this letter 
again, it was clearly written ; nothing ambiguous was there, 
nothing hinted; his wife, had ceased to love him; she had 
fled. Still there was something at his heart that would not 
be thus appeased; the mysterious presence of this young 
creature seemed to haunt his room, haunt the innermost cham- 
bers of his heart ; he thought of the letter she had written 
him, and which he had burned while under the terrible influ- 
ence of his friend’s epistle. He began to regret now, to wish 
that he had at least seen the contents of that letter ; still his 
friend was dispassionate, just — why should this calm report 
be doubted ? a report evidently wrung from him by a strong 
sense of duty. 

Mr. Clark slept little that night ; his better angel was 
abroad. Zulima, too, was weeping beneath the same roof ; he 
knew it not, but still he could not sleep ! 

In the morning Smith came to the chamber where Mr. 
Clark was sitting at breakfast. His face was sad ; he seemed 
ill at ease. 

“ I thought it best to come and bring this news to you 
first ; it might save you from great embarrassment.” 

“ What news ? — what embarrassment ?” said Clark, who 
had no idea that Smith knew any thing of Zulima, or her 
connection with him. “ Surely nothing has gone wrong in 
the business ?” 

“ No ; but the young lady who says she knew you in New 
Orleans — that she has claims upon you !” 

Mr. Clark turned deathly white ; this sudden mention of 
his wife unnerved him. 

“And is she in Philadelphia ?— where is she?— how came 
she to find you out ?” 

“ I do not know ; she sent me a note, and I went to her 
hotel.” 

“ Was she alone— was she alone ?” questioned Mr. Clark, 
starting up. 

“ No, not quite alone,” replied Mr. Smith, with a meaning 
smile ; “ I saw only one person with her, a young and re- 
markably handsome man.” 

Mr. Clark sunk to his chair as if a bullet had passed through 


50 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


his heart. “ Go on,” he said, after a moment ; “ go on, I am 
listening.” 

“ This lady, sir, seemed determined to see you ; she came 
on here — she is now in Baltimore.” 

“ And her companion ?” said Mr. Clark, with a ghastly smile. 

“No,” replied Smith; “I think she would not do that. 
She wishes to see you; I do not know what her object ia.” 

“ I will not see her ; I will never see her again,” said Mr. 
Clark, and his face looked like marble. “ If she needs any 
thing, supply her ; she is, sir, the mother of my child ; she is 
— but I will not talk of it ; let her want for nothing — she is 
my wife.” 

“ You will not see her then ?” 

“ No, it is enough.” Mr. Clark rang the bell — a man en- 
tered. “ Have my carriage brought up at once ; I shall set 
out for Washington. Mr. Smith, you know how to act. Save 
me from a repetition of this : you see how it tortures me. I 
loved that young creature — I thought, fool, madmam, that I 
was — but she seemed to love me.” 

Mr. Clark went into another room ; he could not endure 
that other eyes should witness his emotion. The coachman 
now came up ; his proud master understood that every thing 
was ready, and without speaking a word, left his apartments. 
He stepped into his carriage; he was gone — gone without 
hearing the wild shriek that broke from the lips of that poor 
young wife, who had caught one glimpse of him from her 
window. She shook the sash — she strove to call after him ; 
but her arms trembled — her voice was choked ; with all her 
effort she made but little noise ; those in the next room heard 
nothing of it, till she fell heavily on the floor. Mr. Smith 
found her there, lying like a corpse rigid and insensible. Then 
his heart smote him — then would he have given worlds that 
the falsehoods which brought all this misery had not been 
uttered. He had tried to think ill of his victim, to believe 
that between her and her husband there was neither love nor 
sympathy ; how had the last hour undeceived him. Madden- 
ed by doubt and jealousy, his benefactor had not even at- 
tempted to conceal the anguish occasioned by what he deemed 
the perfidy of his wife ; and she — was she not there, cold as 
marble, white as death, prostrate at his feet ? 


A MOURNFUL TVEDDJNG. 


51 


But lie could not go back — his evil work must be fully ac- 
complished; now to shrink or waver, would be to expose 
himself; that he could not contemplate for a moment. Zu- 
Uma became sensible, at last. It was a long time, but finally 
she opened her eyes and sat up. “ He is gone,” she said lift- 
ing her heavy eyes to Smith, “ he is gone without a word of 
explanation.” 

“ What could he explain, but that w’hich he would not wish 
to say face to face with his victim ? He has deceived you 
with a mock marriage. I knew that it would prove so. You 
are free, you are Wealthy, if you choose. Be resigned ; there 
is no redress.” 

“ No redress !” Zulima repeated the word over and over 
again. “ No redress ! I thought myself his wife ; I am the 
mother of his child ; O God ! Myra, Myra, my poor, poor 
child—” ******** 

They were parted — Zulima solemnly believed that she had 
never been the wife of Daniel Clark, that she was free — oh, 
how cruelly free — and another loved her. Wounded in her 
pride, broken in spirit, outraged, humiliated, utterly alone; 
was it strange that the poor torn heart of that young creature 
at length became grateful for the affection that her grief and 
her desolation had excited ? She told him all, and still that 
young man loved her, still he besought her to become his 
wife ; and she, unhappy woman — consented. 

There was to be no secresy — no private marriage now ; in 
the full blaze of day — robed in satin, glossy and white as the 
leaves of a magnolia, her magnificent tresses bound with white 
ro3es, her bridal vail looped to the curls upon her temple with 
a snowy blossom, and falling over her, wave after wave, like 
a cloud cf summer mist. Thus went Zulima Clark forth to 
her last bridal. It was a mournful sight ; that young girl so 
beautiful, so fated, standing before the altar, her large eyes sur- 
charged with sorrowful remembrances of the past, and her 
poor heart heaving with a wild presentiment of coming evil, 
till the rose upon her bosom, and the pearls upon her throat, 
trembled as if a wind were passing over them. It was a 
mournful, mournful wedding; for there, Zulima, the wife of 
Daniel Clark, sealed the perfidy of her enemies. Beautiful 
bride, innocent woman, thine was a hard destiny ! 


52 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


CHAPTER IY. 

Once again they met, 

And then they saw, each in the other’s heart, 

And the black falsehood that had sever’d them 
Rose palpable and hideous to the thought. 

Hot tears were shed — sad blessings mutely given ! 

They met, and parted — he went to meet liis death, 

And she to weep o’er bitter memories ! 

Zulima made lier home in the South, and there also, after 
years of wandering, came Daniel Clark — weary with excite- 
ment, and unhappy with a sense of bitter loneliness. In the 
first moments of his anger against Zulima, he had made his 
will, giving all his vast possessions to an aged relative, and 
making the false friends who had caused his misery executors 
of that will. And this was the deep game for which these 
men had staked their souls — these possessions and the control 
over them. Ho matter though the fair wife was crushed to 
the earth ; no matter though that beautiful child, in all her in- 
fant unconsciousness, was despoiled of her just inheritance. 
It was for this they had toiled in darkness; it was for this 
they had heaped falsehood upon falsehood, wrong upon 
wrong. 

But Clark had returned to Hew Orleans, not to pass a week 
and away again, as before, but to control his own business — 
and in Hew Orleans was Zulima. They might meet, still it 
was unlikely, for she was proud and sensitive as ever, and 
lived in the bosom of a new family, and was girded around by 
new and powerful affections. Looking upon Clark as a heart- 
traitor, one who had betrayed her unprotected state, and trifled 
alike with her reputation and her love, she shrank from a 
thought of the past. The wrong that she believed to have 
been practiced upon her was so terrible, that she shuddered at 
the retrospection. Without one shadow of hate or hope of 
revenge, to perpetuate the struggle that had been so heart- 


TIIE BEAUTIFUL GARDEN. 


sa 


rending at first, tlie only effort that she made was to obtain 
forgetfulness. 

Zulima knew not that Clark had arrived at New Orleans, 
but a strange inquietude came over her. Thoughts of the 
sweet and bitter past made her restless day and night ; she 
was haunted by a constant desire to see her child — the child 
of Daniel Clark ; from this innocent creature, wrong and ab- 
sence in the father had failed to alienate her love. 

A little out from New Orleans was a pretty country-house, 
surrounded by ornamental grounds and embowered in tropical 
trees. It was a small dwelling, secluded and beautiful as a 
bower; works of art, rare. books, and light furniture, befitting 
the climate, gave an air of refinement and grace within ; pas- 
sion-flowers, briery roses, and other clinging vines draped the 
cottage without. An avenue of orange and lime trees led to 
the front door, and behind was a small garden, cooled by the 
rain that fell perpetually from a fountain near the center, and 
glowing with tea-roses, lilies, and a world of those blossoms 
that grow most thrifty and fragrant in the warm South. 

Among these beautiful grounds little Myra Clark had been 
at play since the breakfast-hour. She had chased the hum- 
ming-birds from their swarming places in the arbors and rose- 
hedges; she had gathered golden-edged violets from the 
borders, and leaping up with a laugh to the orange-boughs 
that drooped over the gravel-walk, had tom down the white 
blossoms and mellow fruit to crowd with the flowery spoil 
that she had gathered in the skirt of her muslin dress. And 
now with her lap full of broken flowers, fruit, torn grass, and 
pebble-stones, the child cast herself on the rich turf that swell- 
ed up to the brink of the fountain, and pressing her dimpled 
hands and warm cheek upon the marble, lay in smiling idle- 
ness, watching the gold-fish, as they darted up and down the 
limpid waters, her soft brown eyes sparkling with each new 
flash of gold or crimson that the restless little creatures im- 
parted to the waters. Now she would cast a broken rose-bud 
or a tuft of grass into the fountain, and her laugh rang out 
wild and clear above the bell-like dropping of the water in the 
marble basin, if she could detect some fish darting up like a 
golden arrow to meet her pretty decoy. Thus lay the child ; 
thus fell the bright water-drops around ; and thus, a little way 


54 


MYRA, THE CniLD OF ADOPTION. 


off, drooped the fruit and flower laden houghs, when the sweet 
tranquillity was disturbed by a footstep. Down one of the 
gravel-walks came a man, bearing upon his noble features an 
ah of proud sadness, his very step denoting habitual depres- 
sion, as he moved quietly and at a slow pace toward the 
fountain. It was not a look of ill-health that stamped so 
forcibly the air and demeanor of this man. His frame was 
still strongly knit, his step firm as iron, but upon his brow 
was that deep-settled shadow which a troubled heart casts 
up to the face, and the locks that shaded it were sprinkled 
with the premature snow which falls early over a brain tor- 
tured with unspoken regrets. Thus sorrowful, but still un- 
bowed in his spirit, appeared Daniel Clark, as he moved 
quietly toward the fountain where his child was at play. 

Myra was busy with her gold-fish, laughing and coquetting 
with them through the waves. She saw nothing but their 
golden flash, she heard nothing but the light drops, that dim- 
pled and clouded the water around them. Thus for several 
minutes the proud and saddened man stood gazing upon his 
daughter. 

She saw him at last; and then with a faint cry the JLittle 
creature cast away the contents of her frock, and sprang up. 
Half in joy, half in timid surprise, she stood gazing upon his 
fa<3e. The pupils of her eyes dilated till they were almost 
black, her white arms seemed trembling with restraint, as if 
the suddenness of his appearance had checked the first quick 
impulse. She was only waiting for one smile to spring like a 
bird to his bosom. 

“ Myra !” 

The firm voice of Daniel Clark gave way as he uttered the 
name of his child. His eyes grew dim with tears, and he 
reached forth his trembling arms. She sprang with a single 
bound to his embrace, she wreathed his neck strongly with 
her arms, and pressed upon his lips, his cheeks, and his moist 
eyes, kisses that, from the lips of a beautiful child, seem like 
the pouring of dew and sunshine from the cup of a flower. 

“ Oh, you are come again !” she said, placing her warm 
hands on each side his face, and looking with the smiling con- 
fidence of childhood into his eyes. “ They told me that you 
would not come to see us any more for a long, long time.” 


FATHER AND CHILD. 


55 


“And are you glad to see me, darling?” said Mr. Clark, 
drawing his hand caressingly down the disheveled brightness 
of her hah*. “ You seem glad, my little Myra ?” 

“ Seem — why — I am glad — so very, very glad, my own, 
own — ” the child hesitated. 

*‘ Papa — will you not call me papa, this once ?” said the 
agitated father, and upon his pale cheek there came a flush, 
as he said this to the child. 

“ Oh, but they tell me that you are my godfather, and that 
is not a papa, you know,” said the child, shaking her head 
with an air of pretty thoughtfulness. 

“ Perhaps it is as well,” murmured the father, and his look 
grew sad. 

Myra bent down and looked into his eyes, smiling. 

“ Don’t look so sorry,” she said ; “ I will call you papa, if 
you like. Papa ! dear papa ! there, now !” 

But even the childish caress, accompanied as it was by a 
voice and look of the most winning sweetness, failed to dispel 
the sadness that had fallen upon the father’s heart. Perhaps 
the very loveliness of the child did but deepen that sadness, 
by reminding him of its mother. Let this be as it may, Mr. 
Clark sat down by the fountain with the little girl in his arms, 
but he remained silent, thus chilling the little creature whose 
arms were about his neck, and she too became hushed, as it 
were, by the gloom into which he fell. During several min- 
utes the father and child remained thus -wrapped in silence. 
At last he spoke in a low and troubled voice, kissing the fore- 
head of the child : 

“ Myra, do you love me ?” 

“ Indeed, indeed I do, ’’ said the little girl, laying her cheek 
to his. “ Better almost than anybody else in the wide world, 
if you are only my godfather.” 

“ And whom — ” here Mr. Clark’s voice faltered — “ and 
whom can you love better, Myra ?” 

“ Oh,” said the child, shaking her head with a pretty mys- 
terious air, “ there is somebody that I love so much, a pretty, 
beautiful lady, who comes to me so often, and so strangely, 
just like one of the fairies nurse tells me about. Sometimes 
she will be a long, long time, and not come at all. Then, 
while I am playing among the trees, she will be close to me 


56 MYKA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 

before I think of it. She kisses me just as you do, and once 
— that, too, was so like — ” the child paused, and seemed pon- 
dering over something in her mind. 

“ What was so like, Myra ?” said Mr. Clark, in a faint voice, 
for his heart misgave him. . 

“ Why, I was just thinking,” said the child thoughtfully ; 
“this pretty lady wanted me to call her mamma, just as you 
wanted me to call you papa, you know, only in fun.” 

“ And did you call her that ?” 

“ Yes, but I never will again — no, never in the world ; for, 
do you think, she began to cry like any thing the moment I 
put my arms round her neck and said ‘ Mamma !’ You can’t 
think how she did cry, and after asking me, too.” 

Mr. Clark turned away his head ; the child’s earnest look 
troubled him. 

“ She knew well enough that it was all fun,” persisted the 
child, “ and yet she kept on crying all I could do.” 

“ Oh, such words are bitter, bitter fun,” muttered Mr. Clark, 
tortured by the innocent prattle of the child. 

“ I did not mean any harm ; the lady asked me to call her 
‘ Mamma,’ but I never will again,” said Myra, drooping under 
what seemed to her the displeasure of her best friend. - 

“ Oh yes, Myra, you must love this lady ; you must call 
her any thing she pleases,” said Mr. Clark, with a burst of 
emotion that startled the little girl. “ Be good to her ; be 
gentle and loving as if — as if it was not fun when you call 
her ‘Mamma.’ You will be good to her; promise me, my 
darling, that you will.” 

“ But she will not ask me again. It is a long, long time 
since the lady has been here,” answered the child thoughtfully. 
“ Perhaps she will not come any more.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Mr. Clark, with a voice and look of painful 
abstraction. 

A slight noise in a distant part of the garden drew the 
child’s attention. She started, and bending eagerly forward 
looked down a winding path sheltered by the orange-trees. 

“ See !” cried the child, pointing down the path with her 
finger, while her eyes sparkled like diamonds ; “ didn’t I say 
that she always came like a fairy ? Didn’t I tell you so ?” 

Clark followed the child’s finger with his eyes, and. there, 


THE MEETING. 


57 


coming up the path rapidly, and with eager haste in her look 
and manner, he saw Zulima, the wife of his bosom, the mother 
of his child. For the world, that proud man could not liaye 
risen to his feet ; his strength utterly forsook him ; he at- 
tempted to remove Myra’s arm from his neck, but even that 
he failed to accomplish, so profound was his astonishment, so 
overpowering was his agitation. 

A tree stood close by the fountain, overrun and shadowed 
by the convolutions of a passion-flower vine, that fell like a 
curtain around it, concealing the father and child as Zulima 
came up. Thus it happened that" without any preparation, 
the wronged wife and the deceived husband stood face to face, 
breathless and pale as statues in a graveyard. The child 
clung to her father’s neck. Her large eyes dilated, and her 
face grew crimson with fear. She was frightened by the 
terrible pallor of Zulima’s face. 

Mr. Clark arose pale as death; and trembling in every 
limb, he placed the child gently on the grass, and approaching 
Zulima held forth his hand. 

She took it, but her fingers were like marble; and like 
marble was the cold smile that went in a spasm of pain across 
her lips. 

“ Zulima, will you not speak to me ?” 

Oh, what a flood of bitter waters did that gentle voice un- 
lock in Zulima’s heart. Her limbs began to shake, her hands 
quivered like aspen leaves, and a look of unutterable distress 
fell upon her face. 

“ To what end should I speak ?” she said, in a low and 
husky voice. “ I have no wish to reproach you, and what but 
reproaches can you expect from me.” 

A bitter smile disturbed the pallor of Daniel Clark’s face, 
and a bitter intonation was blended with the mournful cadence 
of his voice. 

“ Reproaches, Zulima, are for slight wrongs ; but slight or 
deep, I deserve none at your hands. While you — oh, woman, 
woman, how have you betrayed the deep love, the honor which 
I gave you in holy trust. Neither will I reproach ; but when 
I look upon your face, still young, full of beauty, and bearing 
the old look of innocence, it forces me to think of the vows you 
have broken, the mockery you have cast upon our marriage” 


58 


MYKA, THIS CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


M Our marriage,” repeated Zulima. Again her lips were dis- 
torted with a smile mournful and bitter, and clasping her 
hands she wrung them nervously together. 

“ Why do you smile thus ? Why do you repeat thus bit- 
terly the words that I have spoken ?” said Clark, regarding 
her wild agitation with wonder. “When I speak of our 
marriage, you do not shrink or tremble as one who has pro- 
faned a holy rite, but your eye is full of scorn, your lips curl 
with bitter smiles. Zulima, are you indeed so lost that the 
mention of ties that bound us once, and that legally bind us 
yet, ties that you, unhappy woman, have broken and dishon- 
ored, can only awake a smile of scorn ?” 

Zulima stood motionless, her hands clasped, her eyes dilat- 
ing ; the truth was struggling to her heart. 

“ Speak to me, speak to me again,” she cried, extending her 
locked hands imploringly. “ That marriage, you know, you 
know well, it was all false, all a deception. I never was your 
wife !” 

Mr. Clark drew back — he breathed with difficulty : the truth 
was breaking upon his soul also — the cruel, terrible truth. 

“ Speak to me, speak to me,” cried Zulima, in a voice of 
thrilling anguish ; “ I never was your wife !” 

“ The God of heaven, at whose altar we were united, can 
answer that you were my lawfully wedded wife, that you are 
so now !” 

A sharp cry broke from Zulima, she staggered forward a 
pace, and sat down upon the grass close by her child ; cover- 
ing her face with both hands, she bent it down to her knees, 
and remained thus motionless and absolutely without breath. 

Clark stood gazing upon her, every nerve in his body quiv- 
ering ; the horror that her face had exhibited, that sharp cry, 
the utter prostration of her energies, all these things were fast 
unsealing his eyes. He sat down by the unhappy woman and 
attempted to remove one of the pale hands clasped over her 
eyes, but she resisted him with a faint shudder, and then 
through those lashed fringes gushed a flood of tears. 

“Zulima, try and compose yourself, make one effort; for, 
on earth, I feel that this must be our last interview. Shrink 
not thus ! I have never wronged you, or if it prove so, not 
knowingly or wilfully.” 


VILLAINY EXPOSED. 


59 


Zulima shook her head, and sobbed aloud. “There has 
been wrong, deep, black wrong, somewhere,” she said; “I 
was told that you also had deceived me by a false marriage, 
that the ceremony we went through was a fraud, and I your 
victim, not a wife. 

“ And who told you this infamous falsehood ?” said Clark, 
clasping his hands till the blood left them, in the agony of his 
impatience. 

“ Ross hinted it ; Smith told me so in Philadelphia and in 
Baltimore. They told me, also, that you were about to marry 
another ; I saw you together with my own eyes. You refused 
to see me ; but for that I had never believed them !” 

“And Smith told you this; Ross hinted it,” cried Clark, 
locking his teeth with terrible anger. “ These two men whom 
I have fed, whom — ” he paused ; the violence of his emotion 
was too great for words. 

But why should we further describe the harrowing scene ? 
It was long before these two unhappy beings could speak with 
calmness, but at length all was told — the fraud that had kept 
back their mutual letters, the slow and subtle poison that had 
been instilled so assiduously into each proud and passionate 
nature — all. For the first time, Clark learned the sufferings, 
the passionate love, that had sent his young wife in search of 
him, her struggles, her despair. Then his own haughty re- 
serve gave way ; he laid open his whole heart before her, its 
history and its anguish. He told her of his wanderings, of the 
deep and harrowing love ; which not even a belief in her faith- 
lessness could wring from his heart; he told her all, and then 
these proud beings sat again, side by side, looking in each 
other’s faces, and yet separated, oh, how irrevocably ! 

Then came the time for parting. Zulima must go back to 
her home, and he — where could he seek shelter from the grief 
of that terrible moment ? 

They both arose, and face to face, stood gazing on each 
other for the last time ; neither of them doubted that it was 
for the last time, on this side the grave. A look of mournful 
despondency was on their features, their hands were clasped 
for an instant, and then Zulima turned away, and tottering 
feebly in her walk, passed from the garden. He stood watch- 
ing her till the last flutter of her garments disappeared under 


60 


MYliA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


the orange-boughs, then he turned away and went forth, a 
broken-hearted man. Mother and father both went away, 
leaving the child alone. Terrified by the scene of anguish 
passing before her, the little creature had neither moved nor 
spoken, and in the agony of that last parting she was forgotten. 
She had no heart for play then. The fish turned up their 
golden sides in vain, the humming-birds flashed by her quite 
unheeded ; she was gazing after her father, and her eyes were 
full of tears. All at once, she saw him coming back, walking 
rapidly; tears were in his eyes also, and, taking her to his 
bosom, he kissed her forehead, her hair, and her little hands. 
Myra began to sob piteously. She could feel the swelling of 
his heart against her form ; the hot fever of his lips as they 
touched her forehead, made her tremble, and cling closer to 
him ; it seemed as if the little creature knew that this was the 
last time that noble heart would ever beat against hers — as if 
she felt in her whole being that he was her father. Thus, after 
a brief struggle, the parent and child parted, and forever. 

That night Daniel Clark spent under the roof of his friend, 
Eoss, the very roof that had sheltered his bridal life with 
Zulima and the birth of her child. He met his false friend 
calmly, and without any outbreak of the terrible sense of 
wrong that ached at his heart. He said truly, that reproaches 
are for slight wrongs, only his were too mighty for words. 
He never once hinted to the traitor that he was aware of his 
treachery. Perhaps the footsteps of coming death were press- 
ing too heavily upon him, even then, for he whispered to his 
heart more than once that day, “Vengeance is mine, saitli the 
Lord, and I will repay it.” 

There was no vengeance in Daniel Clark’s thoughts ; for 
death was there already, and he felt that the little time given 
him on earth would scarcely be sufficient to right the wronged. 

In the very chamber where Zulima had sat, amid the storm, 
writing her last soul-toucliing letter to her husband, was that 
husband at midnight, writing eagerly as she had been. His 
face was deathly pale one minute, and the next there spread 
over it a warm red hue, that seemed burning hotly through 
the flesh. He wrote on, sheet after sheet, linking the pages 
together as he completed them, with a black ribbon; and, 
notwithstanding the anguish that shook, and the fever that 


LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. 


61 


burned him, the writing, as it flowed from liis pen, was firm 
and even as print. 

Toward daylight the document was finished. Two black 
seals were placed at the last page, then the whole was folded 
up and carefully sealed. Weary and haggard was Daniel 
Clark, as he arose from his task ; the bed stood in a corner of 
the chamber, cool and inviting, but he approached it not. 
With a heavy and wavering step, he reached the open window, 
and folding his arms upon the sill, turned his face to the 
soft night-air, with a faint groan, and thus he remained till 
morning. 

The next day, Daniel Clark rode into the city, and was 
closeted with several of his old and intimate friends. In the 
house of one of these friends the others met by appointment, 
and there Daniel Clark read his last will and testament, mak- 
ing his child, Myra Clark, the heiress to his vast possessions, 
and there he solemnly declared his marriage with Zulima, that 
child’s mother. After this he sat down in the presence of his 
friends and chosen executors, and placed his signature to the 
will that his ow T n hands had written. 

When Mr. Clark left them that day, his friends observed 
that the hand with which he clasped theirs was burning, and 
that his eyes looked heavy and swollen. They remarked, too, 
that he had never. once smiled during the whole interview; 
but the occasion w T as a solemn one, and so they merely gave 
these things a passing thought, deeming them but the result of 
some undue excitement. 

At nightfall Mr. Clark reached the dwelling of Ross. It 
had been Zulima’s residence, and he yearned to lie down in 
the room that she had occupied, and to press the same pillow 
that she had wept upon. All the deep tenderness of his early 
love for that wronged woman came back to him with a knowl- 
edge of her blamelessness. Pride, the great sin of his nature, 
had been prostrated with the knowledge that he, with all his 
haughty self-reliance, all his splendor of intellect, had been in- 
fluenced by base and ungrateful men to wrong the being 
dearest to him in life. All the manifestation of displeasure 
that he displayed toward Ross was a desire to avoid his pres- 
ence, but even that awoke the ever-vigilant suspicion of the 
man. He had placed menial spies on the steps of Zulima, but 


62 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


in hunting down the sterner game Ross played the spy himself. 
The plantation which Ross occupied was the property of his 
patron, and in the dwelling Mr. Clark had always kept his 
own separate apartments. On returning home that night he 
entered a little library belonging to these apartments, and 
opening an escritoir had taken from thence an ebony box, in 
which were his most valuable papers. After placing the 
will therein he had carefully locked the escritoir and the 
room before retiring to his chamber for the night. 

At two o’clock the next morning there shone in this library 
a faint light. By the escritoir stood Ross softly trying a key 
in the lock, and behind him upon a table rested a dark lan- 
tern, so placed that all its rays fell in one direction, leaving 
most of the room in darkness. Noiselessly the key was 
turned, and without a sound was the escritoir opened, and 
the ebony box dragged forth. 

The will was the first paper that presented itself on open- 
ing the box. Ross took it up, seated himself in Mr. Clark’s 
easy chair, and began to read ; nervously glancing over the 
pages, and starting from time to time if the slightest sound 
reached his ear. 

“ As I thought !” he said, in a stern, low voice, dashing his 
hand against the paper till the sheets rustled loud enough to 
make him start. “ Thus has one day undone the work of 
years. I knew that something had warped his heart against 
me !” 

Thoughtfully, and with a frowning brow, Ross folded up 
the will, laid it in its depository, and secured it as before. At 
first he was tempted to take the light from his lantern, and 
consume it at once, but the rash thought was abandoned after 
a moment’s reflection, for there was danger at any hour that 
Mr. Clark might detect the fraud and place another will be- 
yond his reach. With his duplicate key and ready access to 
all the apartments, there was little to dread While the will 
remained under that roof. 

T^lie moment every thing was safe, Ross closed his lantern, 
and sat for more than an hour musing in the darkness. When 
he came forth, there was a deep and gloomy cloud upon his 
brow ; the pale moonbeams .fell upon it through the windows, 
as he passed to his own room, but the moonbeams failed to 


FEVER — DELIRIUM. 


68 


reveal the black thought that lay hidden beneath that frown. 
There w T as more than fraud in that hideous thought. 

Mr. Clark slept in Zulima’s chamber, upon the couch her 
delicate limbs had pressed, and upon the pillow where her 
head had found its sweetest slumbers. Perhaps the fever- 
spirit grew riotous and strong on the memory which these 
objects aroused, or it might have been that, without all these 
reminiscences, the illness that came upon him that night would 
have proved more painful still. The morning found the 
heart-stricken man faint and strengthless as a child. A vague 
dreaminess hung about him,. which did not quite amount to 
delirium, and yet it could not have been said that he was quite 
conscious of passing events. He talked in a low voice of his 
wife and child : there was something sad and broken-hearted 
in every word that he uttered, totally at variance with his 
usual proud and lofty reserve. He seemed to take little inter- 
est in those about him, but murmured gently to himself, and 
always of them. If this was delirium — and it must have been, 
so totally was it at variance with his previous manner — there 
was something exceedingly touching and mournful in it, for 
the death-bed of that noble and strong man seemed marked 
by a degree of solemn tenderness that might have befitted the 
death-pillow of a loving woman. 

At first the disease seemed scarcely more than an attack 
of nervous fever, such as often follows violent excitement. 
The spirits of heaven who guarded that death-bed alone can 
tell if neglect or irritation, or deeper and darker causes com- 
bined to terminate that slight illness in death. Ross was his 
attendant; constant and unceasing was the assiduity of his 
watch. No physician, no friend entered the sick-room, and 
for three days that noble man lay struggling with death, in the 
presence of his bitterest enemy, and one faithful old body- 
servant, who could only watch and weep over the master who 
was to him almost more than mortal. 

Then came the third night, and still the failing man was 
alone with that one old negro, who would not be sent away ; 
and over him bent the household viper, whose sting had been 
worse than death. A dim lamp was in the room, and through 
the open windows came the night air, in soft, sweet gushes, 
making the muslin drapery tremble in the flaring lamplight. 


G4 MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 

Daniel Clark turned upon his pillow ; his eyes opened wide, 
and he moved his hands in the air, as if seeking to grasp 
at something. Ross bent over and spoke to him, but the 
dying man closed his eyes and motioned the traitor away with 
his hand. The old negro came up, choking back the tears, 
and bent his gray head gently over his master. Again Clark 
opened his eyes ; a sudden light came into them, and a smile 
stole over the whole face. 

“Bend down,” he whispered, “bend close to me, my old 
servant, for I am dying.” 

The old man bent his head still ' lower, holding his breath, 
and checking the tears that swelled his faithful heart. “ Dear 
master, I listen.” 

Clark lifted his hand, and grasped that of the old man with 
a feeble hold. 

“My wife — my child! See that no wrong is done them.” 

The old man looked down upon that ashen face with sur- 
prise. “ This must be delirium,” he thought, “ for my poor 
master had neither wife nor child.” 

The eyes of the dying man were misty, but he saw the 
doubt in his servant’s face. A look of distress passed over 
his own, and he made a vain effort to collect the power of 
speech. But he could only say, “The will — that must tell 
you-— it is below, take it into your own hands the moment I 
am dead ; and take it to — to — ” 

“ To Master Ross ?” said the old man, observing that his 
master’s voice was sinking. 

“ No ! no !” These words broke from the dying man with 
his last breath ; he fell back upon the pillow ; his hands wan- 
dered upward for an instant, and then fell heavily upon the 
bed. Still his eyes were open — still they w r ere fixed with 
mournful intensity on the old man’s face. 

“ He is gone !” murmured Ross, bending his ashen face over 
the ashen face of the dead. 

“ He is gone !” cried the poor old servant, wringing his 
hands and sobbing aloud ; “ he is gone, and without taking 
the old man with him !” Then the faithful old creature cast 
himself upon his knees, and taking the pale hand of the dead 
between his ebony palms, lifted up his voice and wept. While 
the voi.G«> of his grief filled the room, while his faithful heart 


A SMELL OF BURNT PAPER. 


65 


seemed pouring itself out in tears, Ross turned softly and stole 
from tlie room. 

A few brief minutes the old negro gave to his sorrow. Then 
amid his tears he remembered the last words of the dead. He 
did but pause to close, with reverent hands, the eyes that still 
seemed regarding him with earnest command. He did but 
compose the lifeless limbs, and draw the sheet over those 
loved features, before he went down to obey the last behest 
of the dead. The poor old man went forth from the death- 
chamber, guided by the gray dawn. His tread was slow and 
mournful. You could scarcely hear him as he passed along, 
for it seemed to him that the faintest sound might disturb his 
master. 

He reached the library ; his hand was upon the latch ; he 
turned it with a cautious regard to sound, not with premedita- 
tion, but because the death-scene he had witnessed made the 
least noise appear to him like sacrilege. But the door re- 
mained firm. It was evidently locked within, for through the 
keyhole streamed a faint light, and with the light came an 
indistinct sound of rustling papers and the cautious tread of a 
footstep. The old man bent his eye to the keyhole and looked 
in. Directly within the range of his vision stood Mr. Clark’s 
escritoir wide open, and by it was Ross searching among the 
papers in an ebony box, which the old man knew as the re- 
pository of his master’s most valuable documents. Ross took 
from this box a voluminous parcel, thrust it in his bosom, 
and carefully locking the escritoir, held up the light and look- 
ed timidly around as if fearful of the very silence. Then, 
with a quick, noiseless tread, he passed across the room. His 
face was deathly pale, and the old negro saw that the lamp 
shook and swaled in his hand. There was a fireplace in the 
room, but the door commanded no view of it, and the old 
man strained his sight in vain to secure further knowledge of 
what w T as passing within the library. But if his eye was 
baffled his ear remained keen, and that was directly startled 
by the sharp rustle of papers apparently torn apart in haste ; 
then the whole room was filled with a glare of light. There 
was a sudden and faint crackle as of some hastily kindled 
flame passing up the chimney. Then all was dark and hush- 
ed once more. The lamp seemed extinguished ; a little smoke, 
3 


66 MYRA, THE CHILD OP ADOPTION. 

a faint smell of burnt paper, and that was all the poor old 
negro ever saw of his master’s will. 

The old man went back to the chamber, knowing too well 
that his mission was at an end. He knelt down by that 
death-couch trembling like a culprit, and heart-sick from a 
consciousness of his own impotence. “ Oh, master, master ! 
forgive me — forgive me !” cried the gray-headed old servant, 
bending his wrinkled forehead to the hands he had clasped 
upon the death-couch. “Forgive me that I stayed to cry 
when I should have obeyed the last order you can ever give 
the old man. I have seen, I have heard — but who will be- 
lieve me, master ? Am I not a slave ?” 

“A slaye? Yes; go hence, and forever!” cried a stern 
voice in the room ; “ you who have no more discretion than 
thus to talk with the dead.” 

The old man arose and stood up ; his keen eyes dwelt 
firmly upon Ross, and with his right hand he drew the cover- 
ing from the dead. There was something noble in the look 
and attitude of that old gray-headed negro as he confronted 
the falsa friend, the household traitor, who might yet have al- 
most the power of life and death over him. 

“ He is my master ; I will not leave him,” said the old man 
firmly. “ You may whip 'me, you may kill me, but I will 
never leave him till he is buried. I rocked him in his cradle, 
I will lay him in his grave. Then sell me, if you like ; no 
matter what becomes of the old man when his master is in 
the grave.” And turning away with a look of unutterable 
woe, the old servant cast himself by the death-couch, crying 
out, “ My master ! oh, my master !” 

A few weeks after, the old man was sold and sent away to 
a far-off plantation, for he was a part of the property which 
Daniel Clark had left, and according to the old will, the only 
one ever found, Ross was the executor of the estate, and had 
a right to sell the poor old man. 


YOUTHFUL DBEAMS. 


C7 



CHAPTER Y. 

A being of beauty she fell to her dreaming— 

Thought flitted in gleamings of light through her brain, 

In the depths of her eye it was constantly gleaming, 

Still lighting her soul with soft visions again. 

The will of Daniel Clark was never found, and the vast in- 
heritance that should have been his child’s, became the spoil 
of those who had crept like vipers along his life-path, poison- 
ing every pure blossom that sprang up to bless him on his 
way to the grave. His wife was bereft of every thing but her 
sorrowful memories. His child had not even these. • To her, 
father, mother, all was a dream — an idea that had floated 
through her infant memory and was gone. 

Years went by — many years — and then in one of the most 
splendid mansions of Philadelphia, lay a fair young girl, half ar- 
rayed in her morning costume, and but partially aroused from 
one of those sweet dreams that of late had made her sleep a 
vision of love. While lifting the wealth of her brown hair be- 
tween both her small hands in dressing before her mirror that 
morning, she had been taken with one of those rich gleams of 
thought that are the poetry of youth, and allowing the tresses to 
fall over her slight person again, where, in their wonderful and 
bright abundance, they fell almost to her feet, she had stolen 
thoughtfully to a couch in her boudoir and cast herself upon 
the crimson cushions. There, with some loose drapery gath- 
ered around her, one fair . cheek resting in the palm of her 
hand, and the white arm half vailed by those loosened tresses, 
pressed deep in the silken cushions, the young girl fell into a 
reverie. Perhaps the dream from which she had just been 
aroused still haunted her mind, but it would have been diffi- 
cult for Myra herself to have said what were the strange and 
sweet fancies that floated through her mind at that moment ; 
for her own thoughts were a mystery, her feelings vague as 
they were pure. These sort of day-dreams, when they come 


68 


Mil'll A, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


to our first youth, have much of heaven in them ; if they could 
only endure through life always bright, always enveloped in 
the same rosy mist, 

“ Man might forget to dream of heaven, 

And yet have the sweet sin forgiven.” 

Myra was aroused from her day-dream, not rudely as some of 
our sweetest fancies are broken, but by a light footfall, and a 
soft voice that called her name from the inner room. The 
young girl started up — 

“ Mother — mother, is it you — am I very late this morning 

“ Oh, you are here, daughter,” said a middle-aged and gentle 
lady as she entered the boudoir. “ No, not very late, but do 
you know that your father has just arrived and is inquiring 
for you ?” 

“ My father here, and I not half ready to go down !” cried 
Myra, eagerly gathering up her hair, while, with the wonder- 
ful mobility natural to her features, the whole tone of her face 
changed. The dreamy, almost languid expression vanished in 
an instant. The warm glow of her affectionate nature broke 
through every feature like flame hidden in the heart of a 
pearl. Her cheek, her mouth, her white forehead were full 
of animation ; her brown eyes sparkled with delight. With 
her whole being she loved the man whom she believed to be 
her father, and for the gentle woman who stood gazing upon 
her with so much affection as her toilet was completed, Myra’s 
devotion was almost more than the natural love of a child for 
its mother. Scarcely a minute elapsed before the young girl 
was ready to go down. Another minute and she was in the 
arms of a fine and noble-looking man who stood by the break- 
fast-room door eagerly watching for her. During many weeks 
he had been absent from his home, and he could not feel 
thoroughly welcomed back again while Myra was not by to 
greet him. 

It was a joyous family party that gathered around the 
breakfast-table that morning. The eyes of that gentle wife 
wandered, with a look of grateful affection, from the noble 
face of her husband to meet the sparkling glance of her child ; 
for Myra was more than a child to her. Rejoiced to be once 
more in the bosom of his family, Mr. D. was more than usu- 
ally animated and agreeable. There was not a hidden thought 
or a disunited feeling in the little family group. 


AN IMPOSTOR. 


G9 


“ And whom have you had to visit you since I went away, 
Myra ? What new conquest have you made ? Tell me all 
about it, child,” said Mr. D., smiling, as he received the coffee- 
cup of Sevres china from the hands of his wife. 

Myra laughed — a clear, ringing laugh, that had more of 
hearty glee in it than any thing you ever heard. 

“ Oh, w T e have had crowds of visitors, gallants without num- 
ber. Ladies like a swarm of humming-birds, and — and — oh, 
yes ; we had one very singular and romantic person, a name- 
sake and intimate friend of yours, papa. I wrote you about 
him, but you never mentioned him at all in your reply.” 

“ Oh, yes ; I remember,” said Mr. D. ; “a grave, gentle- 
manly old man, with just gray hairs enough to make him in- 
teresting, and the most winning manners. He carried a little 
Bible with a gold clasp in his bosom — I remember the de- 
scription well. What of him, Myra ? You lost your heart, 
of that the letter told me ; — but who was this mysterious per- 
son ? Pray, enlighten me.” 

Myra and her mother exchanged glances. A faint crimson 
broke over the elder lady’s face, and the young girl looked a 
little puzzled. 

“Why, papa, how strangely you talk. This gentleman 
knows you well ; he is a member of the legislature, and his 
seat is close by yours in the house,” said Myra. 

“ Nonsense, child ; there is but one man of my name in the 
house, and he has not been absent from Harrisburg a day dur- 
ing the session ; besides, he has not a white hair in his head, 
and never carries small Bibles with gold clasps to exhibit to 
young ladies. You have had some impostor here. What did 
the interesting gentleman want ?” 

“ He had lost a portmanteau that contained his money and 
clothes,” faltered Myra. 

“ All but the little Bible !” cried her father with a laugh. 

“ And so,” continued the young girl, blushing, “ as he was a 
friend of yours and out of money, he only desired mamma to 
advance him a small sum” 

“ And she did it — I’ll be sworn she did it !” cried Mr. D., 
enjoying the blushes of his wife. “ The scoundrel carried off 
my wife’s purse and my daughter’s heart at one fell swoop.” 

“ It was not much, only twenty-four dollars,” said the lady 
struggling to bear up against her husband’s raillery. 


70 


MYRA, THE CHILD OP ADOPTION. 


“ But I — I told liim he could have fifty just as well,” said 
Myra, joining in her father’s laugh ; “ who could suspect him 
with his gentle manners — ” 

“ And little Bible ?” interrupted Mr. D. 

“And gray hairs? Indeed, papa, it was worth the money 
to be cheated so gracefully. You have no idea with what an 
air the man took his leave — the tears absolutely stood in his 
eyes.” 

“ The fellow was a fool not to take your fifty dollars, Myra, 
that is all I have to say about him — so now on with your list. 
What other interesting stranger have you entertained in my 
absence ?” 

Myra hesitated, her eyes drooped for an instant, and the 
damask of her cheek deepened to crimson. For the first time 
in her life she felt embarrassed in the presence of her father. 
What if papa should pronounce him an impostor also ? she 
thought ; and her heart was in a glow at the very idea. She 
felt that the eyes of her father were fixed on her inquiringly, 
and this deepened her confusion. 

“We have received one other stranger here,” she said at 
length, making an effort to look up ; “ a very talented and 
agreeable gentleman, whom I met by accident when out on 
an excursion.” 

“ Indeed ; and who is he.?” inquired Mr. D. in a grave tone, 
and casting a glance at his wife that had a shade of displeas- 
ure in it. 

“ He seems a most estimable young man, full of talent and 
generous feeling,” said Mrs. D., anxious to save her child from 
the embarrassment of an answer. 

“ He seems — who is he ?” demanded the husband his voice 
was stem and his look suspicious. “ Myra, who is this man ?” 

“ His name is Whitney,” replied the young girl, resuming 
something of her natural courage. “ I have made no further 
inquiries ; but he is no impostor, papa, I am very sure of that.” 

Mr. D. arose from the table, evidently much annoyed. 
Myra’s heart beat quick. Why should she tremble, why 
should every nerve in her slight frame thrill so, if the stranger 
were no more to her than a hundred others had been ? Why 
was it that the laugh died on her lip, and all her courage fled, 
when she saw the displeasure so strongly marked in her 


THINK NO MOKE ABOUT IT. 


71 


father’s face ? Was the young girl awaking from her dream ? 
did she begin to feel how truly, how ardently she loved ? or 
was the rosy vail but half lifted from her heart ? She cast a 
supplicating glance at her mother, and her look was answered, 
by one of sweet and undisturbed affection. That feminine 
and lovely woman could sympathize far better with the sweet, 
wild feelings that broke so eloquently, that moment, through 
the troubled eyes of her child, than with the stern displeasure of 
her husband. She arose from the breakfast-table and glided 
from the room, making a sign for her daughter to follow. 

“ Stay,” said the master of the house, addressing Myra, as 
she was turning toward her own room. “ I -would ask a sin- 
gle question, and then let us have done with this impostor, 
for, doubtless, he is such.” 

w No, father, no ; I would pledge my life for his honor ; he 
is no impostor,” exclaimed Myra, as her father led the way to 
a little study that opened from the breakfast-room. 

“As you would have done for the gentlemanly old man 
with the Bible, I dare say,” was the half-humorous, half-ironi- 
cal rejoinder. “ But answer my question, Myra : has this 
young man ever presumed to lift his eyes to you as an equal ? 
has he ever uttered a word that might lead you to suppose 
that he thinks of you save as a stranger ?” 

“ Indeed, papa, he never has — far, far from it. When other 
young men have overwhelmed me with flatteries ; when, as 
your heiress, homage of every kind has been lavished upon 
me, he alone has been silent. Always respectful, always kind, 
he has never, for one moment, taken the attitude often as- 
sumed by other young men who could not boast a tithe of his 
merit. He has seldom spoken to me of himself— never has 
the word love passed between us.” 

“ You are eloquent, Myra, alike in the praise and in the 
defence of this stranger.” 

“ I speak but the truth, papa ” 

“ Well, I am glad of it. The whole affair can be more 
readily dismissed than I supposed. Now go to your chamber 
and think no more about it.” 

“ Think no more about it ;” truly it was a request easily 
made, but how impossible to obey. Why, the very thought 
of that stranger youth had henceforth the power of an angel 


72 


MYRA, THE CHILD OP ADOPTION. 


spirit which might steal down and trouble the still waters 
of her heart forever. Myra knew not even yet that this 
spirit took the form of love. She entered her boudoir again 
and flung herself upon the couch, but how changed were her 
feelings — the sweet dream, so tranquil, so full of rosy content, 
was swept away like a cloud. Her heart was in a tumult, 
her cheek burned, her eyes filled with tears. She felt indig- 
nant that her father should, for one moment, hold a doubt of 
the being in whom she put such perfect trust. 

Thus musing with herself, the young girl spent an hour of 
disquiet, when her reverie was disturbed by a servant, who 
informed her that Mr. Whitney was in the drawing-room. 
Her first sensation was a thrill of joy, such as had long, un- 
consciously, followed his approach. The next was a feeling 
of reserve, a shy, half distrustful sensation, such as had never 
possessed her warm, frank nature before. She went down, 
not, as had been her wont, with the step of a gazelle, and with 
a glad smile sparkling in her eyes and on her lip, but with a 
lingering tread and eyes vailed by their snowy lids and dark 
lashes. She entered the drawing-room so gently that its oc- 
cupant did not at first observe her. He stood by a marble 
table, near the window, turning over some books that lay 
upon it. The light which fell over him was subdued by 
many a glowing fold of damask that swept over the windows, 
thus giving the dim look of marble to features so perfectly 
classical in their outline, that but for the thick waving hair, 
and the glow of life that pervaded them, the head might have 
been taken for that of some antique statue. To these manly 
attractions were added a figure, tall beyond the ordinary 
standard, sinewy, athletic, and yet full of subtle grace. 

While he thought himself alone a look of tranquil repose 
lay upon young Whitney’s features, but the moment he lifted 
his head and saw the fair girl who stood hesitating by the 
door, the whole character of his face changed ; a glow of ani- 
mation lighted up his face, and he came forward with all the 
eager cordiality that her previous frank bearing had always 
warranted. 

Myra hesitated before she reached forth her hand, and when 
she did place it in his, it quivered like an aspen. The young 
man looked earnestly in her changing face, and then led her 


SUSFICION. 


73 


to a seat, himself a prey to all the quick apprehension that her 
unusual restraint was calculated to inspire. A few common- 
place words were spoken, then both became silent and pre- 
occupied. At length Myra observed that her father had re- 
turned home that morning, but she blushed while saying it, 
as if the young man could have guessed at the conversation 
that had given so much pain to herself. 

A vague idea of the truth did evidently flash across the 
young man’s mind, for he turned another long and earnest 
look upon her face, which was now glowing crimson to her 
temples, and when he turned his eyes away, the faintest possi- 
ble smile stole over his lips. 

“ It is,” he said, with a faint sigh — “ it is now more than 
two months since I arrived in Philadelphia. All that time 
your kind mamma has received me as a guest. Perhaps I 
should not have accepted this hospitality without first con- 
vincing her that I was not unworthy of it ; but I found it so 
sweet to be taken on trust, so flattering to be valued for my- 
self alone, that I had almost forgotten the reasonable demands 
of society. I ought long since to have convinced her that it 
was no impostor to whom her kindness had been extended.” 

“ Impostor 1” exclaimed Myra, with a smile that told how 
impossible she thought it that even suspicion should be at- 
tached to him. 

“ What if I were to be suspected as such ?” added Whitney 
with an answering smile. 

“ I would not believe it— I would believe no wrong- of you, 
though your own lips asserted it !” was the generous reply. 

The color swept over young Whitney’s face, and there was 
something in his eyes that deepened the crimson on Myra’s 
cheek ; hut he only* answered in a low and earnest voice : 

“I thank you; with, my whole heart I thank you for this 
confidence.” 

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he took from his pocket 
several letters which, with a hand that trembled somewhat, 
he presented to the young girl. She took them to the win- 
dow, and, half shaded by the curtains, began to read, rejoicing 
in the obscurity, for she felt a terror that the quick beating of 
her heart might become visible. 

The letters were from several of the first men in America— 


74 


MYRA, THE GUILD OF ADOPTION. 


men whose autographs had become familiar to Myra upon the 
public records of the land. Nothing could have been more 
ample than the testimonials that these men gave of the high 
worth, talent, and position sustained by young Whitney. 

Myra read these letters with a feeling of proud triumph. 
Her trust in him was sustained ; she had never distrusted his 
worth, and in her hand she held the proud power of crushing 
every doubt that her father might have had. Merit to which 
the highest and purest in the land bore such testimony could 
never again become subject of dispute. She returned to Mr. 
Whitney. The generous enthusiasm that wholly possessed 
her beamed in every lineament of a face lovely in itself, but 
most remarkable for a quick and brilliant expression seldom 
equaled in the human countenance. 

“ Mr. Whitney, may I retain these only a short time ? My 
father — he will be pleased to see them.” 

Myra w r as petite and slight in her person, almost as a fairy. 
As she stood clasping the letters between her hands, and with 
her eyes uplifted toward him, those eyes, so brilliant with 
every feeling of the heart, a prettier contrast with his tall and 
stately form could not well be imagined. 

“ Certainly ; do with them as you please,” he said ; “ but 
you must not allow your father to suppose that I exhibit them 
from ostentation.” 

“ Oh, he will not think that !” cried Myra, extending her 
hand, for her guest w r as about to take his leave. “ He will 
never think any thing that is not noble and good of you, I 
am sure.” 

“ To-morrow, then — tomorrow I will call for the letters.” 

“Yes, to-morrow,” replied Myra; and while a servant 
opened the door for her guest, she entered her father’s study. 

Mr. D. was seated by his escritoir, reading some papers. 
He looked up as Myra entered, and smiled kindly upon her. 

“ What visitor have you had ?” he inquired, folding up the 
paper in his hand. “ Did I not hear some one go out a mo- 
ment since ?” 

“ Yes, sir ; it was Mr. Whitney.” 

Mr. D. tossed the paper he held upon the escritoir, and 
his brow contracted. 

“ Mr. Whitney again 1 Have I not told you, Myra, that 


THE LETTERS. 


75 


no man of whose character I am not well, informed, shall 
visit my house ? How can you thus receive a person of whom 
you know nothing ?” 

“ But, papa, I do know all about him, now, and so may 
you ; only read these letters, and you will find that his family 
is as good as ours ; his character irreproachable ; his position 
every thing that can warrant the acquaintance he has sought.” 

Mr. D. took the letters very coldly, and without another 
word proceeded to read them. Myra watched his countenance 
with a palpitating heart. The frown remained immovable on 
his forehead, and his mouth relaxed nothing of its stem ex- 
pression. Coldly and deliberately he read the letters through ; 
laid them down one by one, and then placing his hand upon 
the parcel, turned to his daughter. 

“ What proof have we that these are not forgeries ?” he 

. , ° > 
said. 

Myra’s heart swelled indignantly. She coukl hardly force 
herself to answer. It seemed as if her father had determined 
to receive no evidence in favor of the man, against whom he 
had taken a prejudice that, to her warm nature, seemed most 
unjust and causeless. 

“ The handwriting, the autographs, are they not genuine ? 
are they not sufficient ?” 

Mr. D. took up one of the letters and examined it closely. 
“ The letters may be genuine ; but what proof have we that 
this young man came by them honorably — in short, that his 
name is Whitney, or that he is at all the person for whom he 
represents himself?” 

“ Oh, papa, this is too much ! Only see this young gentle- 
man yourself, and then judge if he can be suspected of obtain- 
ing those letters by dishonorable means !” 

Myra grew pale, and tears started to her eyes as she spoke. 
Mr. D. regarded her for a moment, then placing the letters in 
his escritoir, he turned the key. Myra waited for some answer 
to her appeal, but he coldly took up the paper that he had been 
reading as she came in, and seemed to cast the subject of 
conversation from his mind. Myra went to her chamber 
with a heavy heart ; she felt chilled and hurt by her father’s 
coldness : perhaps, too, there was in her heart a feeling of dis- 
appointment regarding Whitney also. In the slight mystery 


76 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


that had, up to that day, enveloped him, her ardent fancy had 
found something for the imagination to dwell upon. In the 
generosity of her youth she had rather hoped that he might 
prove one of those rare geniuses that struggle from an obscure 
origin and through poverty, to the intellectual and moral cm* 
inence which alone she prized, and which she was certain he 
had attained. Perhaps some vague fancy of relieving his 
poverty by the wealth which, as her father’s heiress, she must 
one day possess, had formed part of the day-dreams which of 
late had haunted her. Certain it is that a sensation of regret 
mingled with the sadness that her father’s settled disapproba- 
tion had cast upon her spirits. She felt almost grieved by the 
proof that, even as a friend — for she had not allowed her 
thoughts to range beyond that gentle character — Whitney, 
from his worldly position, would never require a sacrifice from 
her. 

The next day Whitney called again — called to take leave. 
He was about returning to his native State, and had only a 
moment in which to utter thanks and farewell to the friends 
whose kindness he should never cease to remember with grat- 
itude. In a few months — it might be weeks— he would again 
visit Philadelphia, and to renew the acquaintance he had 
made would be one of his sweetest hopes till then. 

Myra heard all this with that quiet and gentle dignity 
which no surprise could wholly conquer. She saw that her 
guest was agitated, that he was not taking leave of her with 
the indifference of a common acquaintance; and with that 
deep trust which true affection gives to the heart, her thoughts 
turned to the future. A few broken sentences passed between 
them, and then Myra went to her father for the letters that lio 
had locked in his escritoir the day before. 

“ I will bring the letters myself,” was the cold reply which 
was given to her request, and Myra returned to the drawing- 
room pale and agitated, for there was something in her father’s 
manner that filled her with vague apprehension. 

A few moments elapsed, and then measured footsteps in 
the hall made the young girl’s heart beat quick as she listened. 
They approached the drawing-room door ; it was opened, and 
with a cold and stately politeness Mr. D. entered, holding the 
letters in his hand. He approached Mr. Whitney, who had 


LEAVE THE BOOM ! 


risen to receive him, and now resumed liis seat. “ Sir,” lie 
said, gravely drawing a chair and seating himself opposite to 
the young man, “ there are the letters with which you have 
honored me ; they are perfectly satisfactory.” 

There was something so chill and cutting in the measured 
tones and unbending courtesy with which this was said, that 
it had all the effect of an insult without yielding an excuse 
for resentment. 

Whitney took the letters, and the color mounted to his 
temples. “ I trust,” he said, “ that there was nothing in the 
letters, or in the manner of presenting them, that could give 
offence ?” 

Before answering, Mr. D. turned his eyes upon Myra, who 
sat pale and dismayed in a comer of the sofa, and made a 
motion of the head that she should leave the room. 

The young girl arose trembling in every limb, and left the 
room ; but while she stood upon the threshold struggling foi 
strength to move on, her father spoke. “ May I ask you, sir, 
why those letters were presented to my daughter ?” 

Whitney’s voice was low but firm, as he answered : 

“ I have received much kindness from your family, sir, 
within the last two months, and could not leave the city, as I 
am about to do, without giving Mrs. D. and your daughter all 
the proof in my power that their hospitality had not been un- 
worthily bestowed.” 

“ And was this your only motive, sir ?” 

“ It was my only motive.” 

“And have you not presumed to place yourself on an 
equality with my daughter ? Have you not taken advantage 
of her youth and my absence to ingratiate yourself in her 
fa?or ? In short, sir, have you not presumed upon the hos- 
pitality awarded by my wife, and offered address to my child, 
every way distasteful to her family ?” 

“ No, sir, no, I have not thus presumed.” 

Myra heard no more — a sharp sense of humiliation, a thou- 
sand confused thoughts flashed through her brain, and with a 
pang at her heart such as she had never dreamed of before, 
she darted up the stairs. White and gasping for breath, she 
paused at the top, made a grasp at the baluster for support, 
and, for the first time in her life, fainted upon the floor. 


78 


1IYKA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


Humiliating and bitter, indeed, were the thoughts that flow- 
ed through the young girl’s mind, when she awoke from her 
swoon and found the sweet face of her mother bending over 
her ; proud and keenly sensitive, she felt as if the dignity of 
her self-respect had been irretrievably outraged. Never in his 
life had young Whitney spoken to her of love, and in all her 
thoughts of him, the idea of passion had never once mingled. 
But now she felt in her innermost heart that something 
stronger and more powerful than mere friendship had driven 
the blood from her heart when she heard him so cruelly ar- 
raigned for feelings and hopes that he had never breathed, 
perhaps had never felt. This knowledge of her own heart, 
thrust so rudely on the young girl, was but another pang 
added to her outraged pride, and for days not even the sweet 
and soothing care of her mother had power to console her. 

In this state of feeling, Mr. D. left his child and returned to 
his legislative duties. The very day after his .departure from 
home, there came a letter for Myra — a letter from the man 
who now occupied her every thought. She broke the seal in 
the presence of her mother, and read such words as made her 
heart thrill and her pale cheek glow again. 

“ Nothing but the harsh words of your father would have 
given me confidence to address you so,” the letter said ; “ but 
there was something in those words, cruel and cold as they 
were, that gave me the first gleam of hope I have dared to 
entertain — hope that the great love I feel for you might be re- 
turned. Say only that this hone — it is faint and humble — will 
not be thought presumptuous, and surely some means can be 
fomid by which the prejudice which your father exhibits 
against me will be removed.” 

She loved, she was beloved. The weight that had bowed 
down her pride was swept away by that letter, like mists be- 
fore a glowing sun. A hopeful and joyous creature was Myra, 
and her light heart shook off the trouble that had oppressed it 
as a wild blossom casts the dew from its petals. She answered 
the letter. Modestly and with sensitive reserve, she vailed the 
affection that thrilled at her heart as she wrote to him for the 
first time, but still Myra answered her lover’s first letter, and 
in all this her confident was that loving and gentle mother. 

“Let us hope for the best, my child,” the fond woman 


a parent’s anger. 


79 


would say. “ When your father knows his worth as we do, 
and is satisfied that you love him truly, then he will relent. 
We have but to wait.” 

They did wait, and in the mean time letter after letter came 
and went, thus linking those two young hearts more and more 
firmly together. 

Mr. D. came home at length, and now the true reason of 
his dislike to Whitney became manifest. Myra was intended 
for another. Wealth and station, every thing that could win 
the sanction of a proud man, was in favor of her father’s 
choice, and on the very day of his return he explained his in- 
tentions and his wishes to the young girl. 

“ You shall have a noble fortune, my child,” he said. “ Few 
ladies in America shall give so fine a property to a husband.” * 

“ Father !” answered Myra, and it was wonderful how mild 
and firm the young girl remained, knowing, as she did, how 
powerful were the interests she opposed, with her fragile 
strength — “ Father, I can not marry this man. I do not love 
him, and will never commit the sin of wedding without 
affection.” 

The young girl was very pale, but there was a mild firm- 
ness in her eye that revealed all the pure strength that sus- 
tained her. She paused, drew a deep breath, and while her 
father stood gazing upon her, dumb with astonishment, she 
added : 

“ I will never marry any man but Mr. Whitney, for while he 
lives I can never love another.” 

And now that it was over, Myra began to tremble ; for 
there was something terrible in the fierce and pallid rage that 
held her father for a time mute and motionless before her. 
At length his lips parted, and his eyes flashed. 

“Whitney! the ingrate, the impostor, you love! — you 
would marry him against my consent ?” 

“ hTo, I will never marry any man against your consent, 
papa,” replied Myra, bursting into tears ; for her strength had 
been taxed to the utmost, and she was not one to brave a 
parent’s wrath unmoved. “ I can remain single, and will, if 
you desire it; but with the feelings that I have for Mr. Whit- 
ney, it would be a sin should I give one thought to another.” 

Mr. D. gazed on the pale, earnest face of his child as she 


80 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


spoke, but there was no relenting in his face. Anger, scorn, 
a thousand wrathful passions broke through its pallor, and he 
answered in a voice of cutting scorn : 

“And this man, you told me, had never breathed a word 
of love to you in his life.” 

Myra was about to acknowledge the letters that had passed 
between Whitney and herself, for there was a seeming justice 
in the proud man’s taunt that cut her to the heart ; but she 
thought of her mother, of the self-sacrificing mother who had 
so generously risked the displeasure of her husband in sanc- 
tioning the letters her child had received, and she only an- 
swered, “ I can never love another, papa.” 

Mr. D. turned away, and began to pace the room. His lips 
were pressed forcibly together, and uncontrollable passion 
seemed burning in every vein of his body. 

“ Thank God !” he muttered, turning furiously upon the 
terrified girl— “ Thank God, no drop of my blood runs in your 
veins.” 

“ Papa ! O papa ! this is terrible. Why, in your anger 
against me, say things that are as cruel as they are without 
foundation ?” cried Myra, starting to her feet, and approaching 
her father. 

“ Without foundation ! It is true, girl, I say it is true 
Y ou are not my child l” 

She did not believe him. How could she, poor girl ; with 
the household links of many a happy year clinging about her 
heart ? One word could not tear them away so readily, but 
the very thought made her pale as a corpse, and every nerve 
of her delicate frame trembled. A reproachful smile quivered 
over her lips, and she laid her hand upon the stern man’s 
arm. 

“ O father 1 I know that you are only angry ; but this is 
too much. It would kill me to hear you say that again.” 

Mr. D. turned. Anger was fierce within him still, and he 
took no pity on that pale and tortured girl. 

“ As there is a heaven above, you are not my child ! I can 
prove it — have papers in the house that you shall see.” 

A faint cry burst from Myra’s lips. She staggered back 
and fell upon a chair, her eyes distended, and fixed wildly 
upon the stern man, as if she searched in those angry features 


WHOSE CHILD AM I? 


81 


for a contradiction of the words he had spoken. She saw 
nothing there to relieve the doubt that ached at her heart. 

“ Not my father ? mamma not my mother ?” she murmured, 
and the tears began to rain over her white cheeks. She sud- 
denly clasped her hands and stood up. 

“ Then whose child am I ?” 

Mr. D. sat down ; the angry fire was fast going out from 
his heart, and it could sustain him no longer. Regret, keen 
and self-accusing, took possession of him then. Love, pity, 
every tender feeling that had so long enlinked that young girl 
to his heart, all came back like birds to a ravaged nest. He 
would have given worlds for the power to annihilate those ten 
minutes of his life, when one fierce gleam of anger had un- 
locked the hoarded secret of years. He turned his eyes al- 
most imploringly on the trembling girl. His proud lip quiv- 
ered, his hand shook as he rested it on his knee. Myra crept 
toward him, heart-broken and wretched, beyond all her 
previous ideas of wretchedness. She laid her hand upon his 
shoulder, and bent her face to his as she had done many a 
time in her childhood, when some small trouble oppressed 
her. But oh, how unlike her sweet childhood were those 
agonized features ! 

“ Father — father !” she said, and her voice bespoke in it s 
low and thrilling tones all the anguish he had inflicted — 
“ Father, tell me, whose child am I ?” 

“ To-morrow, to-morrow !” said Mr. D. ; “I can go through 
no more to-day.” 

“ But is it true that I am not your child ?” said Myra, still 
hoping against hope. 

“ It is true !” he answered ; and rising from his seat with 
an unsteady step he entered his study. 

A moment after, Mrs. D. met Myra on the stairs. One 
glance in her face was enough. “ Myra, daughter !” she ex- 
claimed ; “ wliat is this ? You are white as death— you trou- 
ble.” 

“ Mother— mother 1” burst from the lips of the young girl, 
almost with a shriek; “they tell me that I am not your 
child !” 

Mrs. D. was struck motionless. Marble could not have 
been more coldly white than her face and hands. 


83 


MYNA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


u And who— who has told you this ?” she faltered. 

“ He told me himself— papa — he has the proofs. Mother, 
mother, say in mercy that he is only angry — that it is not so !” 

With a wild gesture, and a burst of passionate tears, the 
unhappy girl cast herself into her mother’s arms. The poor 
lady trembled beneath the weight of that fragile form. She 
wove her arms around it ; she pressed kiss after kiss upon 
that forehead with her cold and quivering lips. She strove, 
by the warmth and passion of her maternal love, to charm 
away the pain and the truth from her daughter’s heart, but 
she said not in words, “Myra, you are my child,” and the 
young girl arose from her bosom utterly desolate. 

The morrow came, and Myra stood by her father in his 
study, for he was still a father to her. The escritoir was 
open before them, and a large pocket-book, with the seal 
wrenched apart, lay upon the lid. Mr. D. sat with his head 
bent and shading his troubled forehead with one hand. Myra 
held a letter in her shaking grasp — a letter addressed to the 
man whom she had always deemed her parent, and signed by 
Daniel Clark. She could not read ; the words swam before 
her eyes, but she laid her finger on the signature and said in 
a low and husky voice, “ This name — Daniel Clark — he was 
my godfather.” 

“ He was your father !” replied Mr. D. “ Read, read for 
yourself.” 

Myra forced her nerves to be still. With desperate reso- 
lution she kept her eyes upon the writing. Every word of 
that letter contained proof that went to her heart. She was 
the daughter of Daniel Clark. 


THE TRUTH REVEALED. 


83 


CHAPTER VI. 

She left the parent roof, and left in grief, 

Not from an idle passion vain and light, 

But in her heart there lived a firm belief, 

That duty call’d and honor urged her flight. 

Little by little, as lier shattered nerves could bear it, tlio 
truth was revealed to Myra. It was a sad, sad trial, the up- 
rooting of her pure domestic faith, the tearing asunder of those 
thousand delicate fibers that had so long woven, and clung, 
and rooted themselves around the parents who had adopted 
her. Love them she did, now, as it seemed, more intensely 
than ever, but there was excitement in her heart, a sort of 
wild, unsettled feeling, that destroyed all the sweet faith and 
tranquillity of affection. It was no longer the quiet and serene 
love which had clung around her from infancy, naturally and 
without effort, as wild blossoms bud upon a bank where the 
sunshine sleeps longest — but something of unrest and pain 
mingled with it all. In the history of her parents she found 
much to excite her imagination, her deep and sorrowful in- 
terest. It opened upon her with all the vividness of a 
romance, that kindled her’’’ fancy, while it pained her to the 
soul. Then came other thoughts and more thrilling anxieties. 
The beloved one, the man of her choice, whom she had 
dreamed of endowing with riches, from which she now seemed 
legally dispossessed — how would he receive the news of her 
orphanage — of her dependent state ? Alas, how were all her 
proud aud generous visions swept away ! And yet, did she 
doubt his love or his pure disinterestedness ? Never for a 
moment. Loyal, lofty, and unselfish as her own pure heart, 
she knew the beloved of that heart to be. She felt assured 
that his faith to the dowerless orphan would be kept more sa- 
cred than his pledge to the heiress. Full of this high trust, 
she wrote to Whitney and told him the whole. 


84 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


“ You sought me,” said the letter, “ and loved me as the 
heiress of great wealth, as the only daughter of a proud and 
rich man. All at once, as if a flash of lightning had swept 
across the horizon of my life, revealing the truth with a single 
fiery gleam, I find myself the orphan of a great and good 
man, whom I remember only as the shade of a vision— and 
of a woman, lovely as she has been unfortunate — alive still, 
but kept from her child by bonds that have yet proved too 
strong, even for the yearnings of maternal love. I know that 
Daniel Clark, my father, was supposed to possess great wealth, 
but I am told that he died insolvent, and that in his will 
neither wife nor child was mentioned. Therefore am I an 
orphan, dependent upon those who are strangers to me in 
blood for the love that shelters me, for the wealth that has 
hedged me in with comforts from my cradle up. * * * * 

I am not the person whom you loved — not the person whom, 
two short days ago, I believed myself to be. Should Myra 
Clark, orphaned and without inheritance — her very birth 
loaded with doubt, and her hold on any living thing uncertain 
— still claim the faith pledged to Myra D., the heiress ? No ; 
like the rest, I resign this last and most precious hold on the 
past. You ‘are free — honorably free, from all responsibility 
arising from the faith you plighted. Of all my past life, I 
have nothing left but the simple name of Myra.” 

This is but an extract of Myra’s letter to Mr. Whitney, but 
it was enough to satisfy her delicate sense of honor. It set 
him free. It relinquished all claim upon his faith or his 
honor. Much there was in the letter to melt and touch a 
heart like his, for with a great secret swelling in her breast, 
she found consolation in pouring out the feelings that op- 
pressed her, where she was certain of sympathy. 

And Whitney answered the letter. He had not loved the 
heiress or the lofty name — but Myra, the noble-minded, the 
lovely, the beautiful. If she was an orphan, so much the 
better ; he would be family, wealth, the world to her. He 
grieved for her sorrow, but seemed to revel and rejoice in the 
idea of having her all to himself. This was the tenor of 
Whitney’s reply, and Myra felt no longer alone — her elastic 
nature gathered up its strength again. She became proud of 
the pure and holy love, which only grew brighter with ad- 
versity, and this beautiful pride rekindled all her energies. 


THE COUNTRY RESIDENCE. 


85 


Among the fine scenery which lies upon the upper portions 
of the Delaware Bay, there is a splendid old mansion-house, 
large, massive, and bearing deeper marks of antiquity and 
aristocratic ownership, than are usually found in a country 
where dwellings that have withstood the ravages of a hun- 
dred years are seldom to be found. It was a superb country- 
place, uplifted above the bay, and commanding one of the 
finest prospects in the whole country. Picturesque and 
broken scenery lay all around. Portions of this scenery were 
wild, and even rude, in their thrifty luxuriance, while close 
around the dwelling reigned the most perfect cultivation. 
Park-like groves, lawns fringed with choice shrubberies, and 
glowing with a profusion of flowers, might be seen from every 
window of the dwelling. The stables, lodges, and other build- 
ings, all in excellent repair, bespoke a degree of prosperous 
wealth, and a luxurious taste, seldom found in our primitive 
land. A spacious veranda that ran along the front, com- 
manded a beautiful view of the distant bay and all the broken 
shore, for miles and miles on either hand. In the whole 
State of Delaware could not have been found, at that day, a 
gentleman’s residence more perfect in itself, or more luxurious 
in its appointments. To this house Mr. D. took his family to 
spend the summer months/ and Myra entered it, for the first 
time in her life, with a feeling of profound loneliness. This 
noble mansion was to have been her inheritance ; she had 
spent all her girlhood in the shadows of its walks ; she had 
learned to love every tree and flower and shady nook that 
surrounded it — to love them as the home of her parents, the 
home that should hereafter shelter her and her children. Now 
she entered it sadly, and with a feeling of cold desolation-. 
Transient, certainly, but very painful were these natural re- 
grets. 

But amid all the shadows that hung around her path, there 
was one gleam of golden sunshine. His love was left to her 
— his faith still remained firm and perfect. 

With the visitors who came with Mr. D. to his country 
dwelling, was a distant relation of the family, his wife, and 
two lovely children. To these persons the secret of Myra’s 
birth was made known, and to the lady, young and appar- 
ently amiable, Myra sometimes fled for counsel and sympathy. 


86 


MYEA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


But to these persons the secret of Myra’s parentage opened 
new and selfish hopes that forbade all genuine friendship for 
the confiding girl. Myra, severed by all ties of blood from 
the' family that had adopted her, now seemed only an obstacle 
in the way of their own interests. The excessive love still 
expressed for her both by Mr. D. and his angelic wife, seemed 
so much defrauded from the rights of their own offspring, and 
those who had flattered and fawned abjectly on the daughter 
and the heiress, now returned the touching confidence of the 
orphan with treachery and dislike. 

Thus surrounded by secret enemies and those sad regrets 
which hopes so suddenly crushed could not fail to excite, the 
young girl yielded her whole being up to the one sweet hope 
still left to her, undimmed and brightening each day — a lone 
star in the clouded sky of her life. The love, that under oth- 
er circumstances might have been diversified by many worldly 
fancies, now concentrated itself around her whole being, and 
in its pure intensity became almost sublime. 

Mr. D. in revealing the secret of Myra’s birth had, as it 
were, thrown off all claims to her filial obedience, but the gen- 
erous girl took no advantage of this most painful freedom ; 
her great desire was still to win his consent to her union with 
the man she loved, her penniless union, for Myra neither 
hoped nor wished for any thing more than the love of those 
who had protected her infancy to carry as a marriage dower 
to her husband. Under the sanction of her gentle mother — 
for such Mrs. D. was ever to Myra — the young girl had still 
carried on a correspondence with Mr. Whitney, and it was 
decided that he should write to Mr. D. and again request per- 
mission to visit the young creature, who, without a daughter’s 
right, had no desire to evade a daughter’s obedience. 

Believing the acquaintance between Myra and her lover 
broken off by his own firm opposition, Mr. D. had not given 
up her union with another, which had for many years been a 
favorite object with him. His astonishment and indignation 
may, therefore, be imagined, when the mild and respectful 
letter of Mr. Whitney reached him at D. Place, some few 
weeks after the retirement of his family to their country man- 
sion. It was early in the morning when this letter came, 
and Mr. D. was alone with his relative and guest when he 


BECOMING DESPERATE. 


87 


broke the seal. The anger that shook the proud man’s nerves, 
the sharp exclamation that sprang from his lips, were heard 
by Mrs. D. as she passed into the breakfast-parlor. She saw 
the handwriting crushed angrily between the fingers of her 
husband, and filled w 7 itk dread that Myra’s private corre- 
spondence had been betrayed, she left the room and hastened 
to her daughter’s chamber. 

“ O Myra ! I fear — I fear that your papa has in some way 
obtained one of Mr. Whitney’s letters,” cried the generous 
lady, with a face that bespoke all the anxiety that preyed 
upon her. 

Myra turned a little more pallid than usual, for her father’s 
anger was a terrible thing to brave, — of that she was well 
aware ; but, after a moment, her natural courage returned, 
and she answered with some degree of firmness : 

“ Dear mamma, do not look so terrified. Let his anger fall 
on me ; sit down. That pale face must not tell him that you 
i have ever known of these letters.” 

Mrs. D. sank to a seat, striving to regain some degree of 
composure, and Myra went down-stairs, very pale, but making 
an effort to sustain with dignity the reproaches that she felt 
:! to be prepared for her. 

“ Here, young lady !” said Mr. D. as Myra entered the 
' room ; “ here is a letter from that Whitney again — a letter t<? 
me — asking permission to visit you.” 

Myra drew a deep breath ; in her agitation she had forgot- 
: ten that this letter might be expected, and so long as hej 
r father’s anger had only this source, she could withstand it. 

“ Well, papa, and you will answer it ?” said the young girl, 
i gently, but still with some tremor of the voice. 

“ I will !” was the angry reply ; “ I will answer it as such 
[ presumption deserves !” 

“ Surely— surely, papa, you will not forget that Mr. Wliit- 
j ney is a gentleman, and deserving of courteous treatment ?” 

“ I forget nothing !” was the curt reply ; and without further 
argument Mr. D. left the room, and in half an hour after an 
I old colored man was galloping toward Wilmington, with a 
' letter, directed to Mr. Whitney, in his pocket. What that 
’ let/er contained might have been guessed from the hasty and 
blotted address, had it not been written black as night on the 


88 MYRA, THE CHILD OP ADOPTION. 

angry forehead of Mr. D. when he sat down to breakfast 
that morning. 

A few days went by — days of keen anxiety to poor Myra 
and her gentle mother ; then was the young girl summoned 
once more to the presence of Mr. D. She found him white 
with rage — deeper and more terrible rage than his fine features 
had ever exhibited before ; a letter was clenched tightly in 
his hand ; his fingers worked convulsively around the crushed 
paper as he addressed the trembling girl. 

“ Twice — twice in my life have I been insulted, girl ! By 
your father once — by your lover now. He is coming here ! 
He will be in Wilmington in a few days, will he ! Let him 
come ; but as I live — as I live, girl, he shall never leave that 
place alive ! This insult shall be atoned then and there.” 

“ O father !” was all poor Myra could say. 

“ If he is a gentleman, he shall answer this as a gentleman. 
If he is what I suppose, then I will chastise this insolence as 
I would a menial. When once we meet, one or the other 
will never return alive.” 

Myra shuddered, her pale lips refused to utter the words 
that sprang to them, and she stood before the angry man with 
her hands clasped, but motionless as a statue. At length she 
gathered strength to utter a single sentence. 

“ Father, you will not challenge Mr. Whitney ? It would 
be terrible ; it would kill me.” 

“ If he comes within my reach, if he dares to intrude his 
presence even into the neighborhood, he shall answer it with 
his life or mine !” was the stern reply. 

Myra turned away trembling and heart-sick ; she knew 
that this was no idle threat, no mere burst of vivid passion 
that would die within the hour. Her lover would be in Wil- 
mington in a few days ; it was a firm but courteous announce- 
ment to this effect that had so exasperated the man whom she 
had just left. 

“ Mother — mother, he will not do this thing — he will not 
meet Mr. Whitney with a challenge !” cried the harassed 
young creature, throwing herself into the arms of Mrs. D., 
who stood in the chamber of her child, where she had retired 
from the angry storm below. 

“ I fear it, alas ! lie deems himself braved and insulted,” 


AN HEROIC SACRIFICE. 


89 


said the good lady, weeping bitterly. “ O Myra ! why did 
we permit Whitney to write — why consent to his coming to 
the neighborhood ?” 

“ Why, why, indeed ! if it is but to meet his death ?” cried 
the poor girl, wringing her hands. “ But, mother, this can 
not be ; my father will relent !” 

Mrs. D. shook her head. “ Not where he deems his honor 
or authority contemned, my poor child !” 

“ Oh, what can we do — what can we do ?” 

“ His anger is so terrible — if you could but give up all 
thoughts of the man ; if you only could, my child.” 

Myra withdrew from her mother’s arms, her slight form 
seemed to dilate and nerve itself for some great effort. The 
tears hung unshed upon her eyelashes, and her lips were 
pressed firmly together. The thoughts that swept across her 
sweet face were quick and painful ; she scarcely seemed to 
breathe, so intense was the struggle within that motionless 
bosom. 

“ Mother,” she said, in a low and husky voice, so low that 
it was almost a whisper — “ mother, I will give him up. It is 
to save his life or the life of your husband ; I will give him 
up !” 

While the unhappy lady stood w r ondering at the strange 
calmness with which these words were spoken, Myra passed 
down stairs once more, and stood in her father’s presence, 
calm, resolute, but very sorrowful. 

“ Father, I love the man w T hom you would challenge, whom 
you would force to the extremities of life or death. How 
dearly, how wholly I love him, you can never believe, or this 
agony would have been spared me. Father, you know of his 
coming ; he is already on the way ; thus it is out of my 
power to prevent that which so offends you. Let him come ; 
let him depart in peace, and here I solemnly promise never to 
speak to him again. Father, I give him up, but it is to save 
his life or yours !” 

The young girl ceased speaking ; the words she had uttered 
were pronounced hurriedly and with firmness, but the white 
lips, the heavy trouble that clouded her eyes with something 
more touching than tears, revealed all the heroism of her sac- 
rifice. You could see that to save a human life, she had 




90 MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 

given up all that made her own life valuable. It was strange 
to see so much heroism in a form so gentle and so frail ; it 
was strange that this beautiful spirit of self-sacrifice should 
prove powerless to curb the wrathful spirit that possessed the 
proud man before whom she pleaded, but his answer was re- 
lentless. 

“ No !” he replied. “ That which I have said is immutable ! 
If this man comes so near my house as the next town, he 
shall answer for the presumption with his life, or I will sacri- 
fice mine !” 

Myra stood for a moment looking in that frowning face, 
and as she gazed her own became painfully calm. 

“ My father, once again— once again reflect, it is more than 
life that I offer you for this !” she said, and her voice grew 
softer, as if tears were swelling in its tones once more. 

“ That which I have said I abide by !” was the stem reply. 

Myra pleaded no longer, but turned gently and left the 
room. In the upper hall she met her mother. 

“ Does he relent — will he accept the sacrifice of your offer ?” 
questioned the anxious lady. 

“ No, mother, he refuses ; he seems athirst for the life of this 
noble young man ; but I will save him, I will save them 
both.” 

“ How, my child ? how can you, so frail and so helpless, 
struggle against the strong will of your father ?” 

“ I will leave the house. I will no longer remain where 
innocent and honorable love leads to scenes like this.” 

“What, leave your mother — your own fond, too fond 
mother ? Myra, my child, my child !” 

“ Hush ! mother ; dear, dear mother ; these tears, they make 
me weak as an infant. If you weep and cling to me thus, 
mother, my strength may fail ; and do you not know that 
death may follow — death to your husband or to mine, for is 
he not my husband before God, do you think, sweet mother ?” 

But Mrs. D. only wept, and clung more fondly to her 
daughter. Myra withdrew herself gently from that warm 
clasp, and went away. On the morrow Mr. Whitney would 
be in Wilmington, and before then the young girl had much 
to accomplish— much to suffer. 

All that day Myra avoided the family, above all the gentle 


THE MYSTERIOUS BILLET. 


91 


mother, whose tears she feared far more than the anger of her 
proud father. She had formed a resolution that required all 
her courage, and more strength than seemed to animate that 
slender form. She shrunk, therefore, from encountering the 
tears of that sweet and loving woman. 

There was an old servant in the family, with whom Myra 
from her childhood had been a sort of idol. Indeed, in all 
that large household there was not a dependant who did not 
reverence and love the young creature. This man, early in 
the afternoon, might have been seen riding toward Wilmington 
at a brisk trot, and with some little anxiety in his manner. 
When he reached the town the old man entered a dwelling 
where he was received by two bright and joyous-looking 
young ladies, who greeted him eagerly, and inquired for news 
of his young mistress, while the old negro was searching in 
his pockets for a hastily folded billet, which he, at length, 
produced with no little mysterious importance. One of the 
young ladies tore open the billet, and began to read. 

“ Sit up for me to-night, dear girls,” thus the billet com- 
menced, “ sit up till morning, unless I come before ; you will 
certainly see me during the night ; then I will explain this 
hasty message. It may storm ; no matter, I shall surely be 
with you. Myra.” 

The young ladies looked at each other, wholly at a loss to 
guess the reason of this singular message, but Myra had prom- 
ised to explain all, and so they allowed the old man to depart 
unquestioned. 

Long before the faithful messenger returned, Myra was stand- 
ing in the humble dwelling of an out- door dependent in Whom 
she could trust. 

“ And you are determined, Miss Myra,” was the man’s ques- 
tion as he stood, hat in hand, by the door. 

“Yes; obey my directions exactly as they are given, that 
is all I require of you.” 

“We would do any thing — any thing on earth for yon,” said 
the wife of this man, coming forward ; “ you know we would, 
Miss Myra, even though it may be our ruin should your father 
know that we aided you against his will !” 

“But he never can know; nothing shall tempt me to 


92 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


inform him, and the secret will rest with us alone,” was the 
prompt reply. 

“ We will be punctual, never fear,” said the man ; “ but it 
looks like a storm.” 

“ Well,” said Myra, casting her eyes toward the heavens, 
which did indeed bear indications of a mustering tempest, “ it 
does not matter, be ready all the same. Remember to come 
by the old carriage route, not along the new road — you might 
meet company there.” 

“ I will be cautious, dear young lady ; I will be cautious as 
you could wish.” 

“ I am sure of it,” was the mild and grateful reply ; and 
with a beating heart Myra went back to the house wdiich was 
soon to be her home no longer. 

The relation whom we have mentioned was still at D. Place, 
and his wife, with her two beautiful children, occupied a room 
near that appropriated t,o Myra, and to this room the young 
girl betook herself after returning from the visit to her humble 
friends. A spirit of unrest was upon her; she longed for 
action, for sympathy, for some being to whom she could pour 
forth the anguish which beat like a fever in every vein of her 
delicate body. 

Myra found her father’s guest in an easy chair near the 
window. She was a quiet, tranquil woman, devoid of strong 
passions, but selfish in the extreme, and possessing a sort of 
gentle craft that from its very want of active spirit was cal- 
culated to deceive. She knew that discontent and disunion 
were active in the dwelling, and after her usual inert manner 
was waiting for some result that might prove beneficial to her- 
self and her children. When she saw Myra enter her room 
with a glow upon her cheek, but pale as death about the 
mouth and temples, this woman drooped her eyelids to con- . 1 
ceal all expression of the joy this agitation kindled in her 
bosom, but her look was tranquil, her voice was full of sympa- 
thy as she addressed the young girl. 

“ You look anxious, nay, ill, my sweet friend,” she said, 
taking Myra’s hand, which fell over the back of her chair. 

“ You know,” answered Myra, in a sad voice, “ you know 
what has passed to-day in this house; tell me — for much de- 
pends on your answer, and I can hold counsel with no one 


WILY COUNSELS. 


93 


else beneath this roof— tell me, do you believe that if Mr. 
Whitney should arrive in Wilmington to-morrow, my father 
would find him out and put his cruel threat into execution.” 

“ You know Mr. D. Is he not determined ; did he ever 
swerve from a resolution once formed?” was the mild and 
sinister reply. 

“ Then you honestly believe that he would challenge Mr. 
Whitney ?” was the anxious rejoinder. 

“ Has he not said it, Myra ?” 

“ Then if you think so — you who always look on events so 
still and passionless — I have but to go on,” said Myra, in 
accents that bespoke all the grief this conviction fastened on 
her young heart. 

“ What do you mean, Myra — what is it you contemplate ?” 
said the confidant, with a gleam of satisfaction in her downcast 
eyes. 

“ I am going from this house to-night. Before Mr. Whit- 
ney reaches Wilmington, I will see him and prevent this 
meeting.” 

“ You, Myra ! you — what will your father say ? What will 
the world think ?” 

“ It is to save life !” answered Myra. “ My own soul tells 
me that I am right.” 

The wily confidant dropped her head upon her hand, when 
she fell into a moment’s thought. With all her apparent apa- 
thy, she knew well how to excite the resolution of a generous 
and ardent nature like Myra’s, while seeming to oppose it. • 
The arguments that she used appealed entirely to those selfish 
considerations which were sure to be cast away with disdain 
by the young creature on whom they were urged, and Myra 
went out from the interview more impressed than ever with 
the necessity of putting her project into immediate operation. 

The storm that had been threatening all day, came on at 
nightfall with all the rush and violence of a tempest, but this 
scene suited well with the excitement and wild wish for action 
which swelled in the young girl’s heart, even as the elements 
heaved and struggled without. She sat by the window, gaz- 
ing upon the storm ; the trees tossing their branches to and 
fro like giants reveling in the wind ; the rain sweeping down- 
ward in wreaths and sheets of silvery water whenever the light- 


04 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


ning glared oyer it ; and afar off the distant bay, heaving into 
sight, as it were, from the very bosom of darkness, and sink- 
ing back again when the lightning withdrew the sweep of its 
fiery wing. 

Mr. D., full of unrest as the elements, was pacing the veran- 
da — his face was unnaturally pale in the gleams of lightning, 
and he paced up and down, unconscious or heedless of the 
water-drifts that now and then swept over him. Poor Myra 
sat watching him ; the storm within her own breast and the 
tempest without, imparted to her spirit a wild and reckless 
courage. She stepped out on the veranda ; the rain beat in 
her pale face, the lightning glared across her eyes, already 
more than brilliant; she met her father in his walk, and 
touched his arm with her cold hand. 

“ Father, father ! you have reflected. Oh, say that you will 
not provoke Mr. Whitney into this death-strife when he comes.” 

Mr. D. paused for one moment, a shade of irresolution swept 
across his features, but it left them more pale, more resolute 
than before ; he turned away without a word of answer, and 
Myra disappeared. 

That night, close upon the hour of twelve, two people, a 
man and a woman, stood near a back entrance of Mr. D.’s 
dwelling. The female held an umbrella, dripping and drench- 
ed with rain ; the man stood with his ear bent to the door, 
listening. 

At last, amid the storm, he heard a key turn and a bolt 
withdrawn ; then the door swung open, and Myra appeared, 
wrapped in a large shawl,, and standing by a little trunk 
which the slender girl had dragged step by step down the 
lofty staircase. 

“ Carry it carefully ; there is neither lock nor key ; it was 
the only one I could reach,” she whispered, dragging her 
humble burden toward the man, who swung it to his shoulders 
and disappeared in the darkness. 

Myra drew close to the woman, and sheltered by the drip- 
ping umbrella, followed after. A walk of some distance 
brought them to a carriage which stood waiting back of the 
stables; the steps were down, the horses and vehicle all 
drenched with rain, and furiously shaken by the wind, stood 
ready to receive her. She sprang, pale and breathless, into 


DOWN WITH THE GATE. 


95 


the frail shelter. Her faithful friend was about to mount 
the seat. , 

“ One word,” said Myra, bending her white face into the 
storm ; “ the turnpike gate — you may be known there if the 
man sees you. The storm rages so fiercely he may not be 
aroused, but if he is, make no answer ; your voice, my good 
friend, would betray you, and this kindness to me might be 
your ruin with my father. If this man calls, do not speak ; 
the gate is old, the horses good, the Carriage strong ; be reso- 
lute, and drive on as if nothing were in the way. Do you 
understand ? trample the old gate down, and that without a 
word. It will open your way back again.” 

“ I will drive through the gate ; never fear,” was the prompt 
reply, and the man sprang to his seat. 

One grateful shake of the hand, a smothered “ God bless 
you, Miss Myra,” from the good woman who had risked so 
much for her, and Myra fell back in the carnage. 

The man was obliged to drive very slowly, for the night 
was intensely dark, and he only kept the road by the gleams 
of lightning that ever and anon flashed • over it. At length 
they came to the turnpike gate that stretched its sodden tim- 
bers in a dark line across the road. The tempest was high, 
and every precaution was made to avoid the least noise, but 
the old toll-gatherer had a well-trained and most acute ear. 
Just as the driver was dismounting to try the lock of his gate, 
out came the old man, half-dressed, and with a candle in his 
hand that flared out the moment it felt a breath of the tempest. 
“ Halloa ! who goes there ?” shouted the old fellow. 

Myra leaned from the carriage : “ Not a word — use the whip 
— down with the gate — but not a single word.” 

A firm sweep of the whip followed — a plunge — a crash — and 
then over the broken boards and through the black storm, the 
carriage was swept away. Along the dark road it toiled, 
pelted with rain, half-overturned every instant by a sweep of 
the wind, that kept rising stronger and higher, till on every 
hand rose the black, gaunt shadow of many a darkened dwell- 
ing, and in their midst a single light gleamed like a star, 
u They are up — they are waiting I” exclaimed Myra, with a 
burst of grateful joy, as she saw this light. “ Now, my friend 
—my good, kind friend— you must go no farther ; even they 


96 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


must not see you. Stop here ; set my trunk on the walk ; I 
will find the way myself, now !” 

The man would have protested against this, but Myra was 
firm, and there in that wild storm she stood till the carriage 
was out of sight. Then she seized the trunk by the handle, 
and straining every nerve in her delicate frame by the effort, 
dragged it toward a window where she saw two fair, young, 
beautiful faces peering anxiously out, as if they were searching 
for some loved object in the darkness. 

All at once those faces disappeared, a sound of glad welcome 
came toward the door, and the next instant Myra, panting 
with fatigue, white as death, and drenched through and 
through, till the rain dripped like a rivulet from her garments, 
was folded in the arms of those noble-hearted girls. 


TRUE FRIENDSHIP. 


9 ? 


CHAPTER VII. 

Like a bird in the air, 

Like a boat on the sea, 

Like a fawn from its lair, 

The maiden must flee. 

While Myra was exchanging her drenched garments, and 
partaking of those refreshments which her late and comfortless 
ride rendered so necessary, she related to her young friends 
the cause of this sudden abandonment of her home ; and they, 
with all the warm enthusiasm and vivid romance of youth, 
entered into her feelings and plans. There was no sleep for 
any of the pretty group that night, but closeted in a little bed- 
room, with a bright fire flashing and glowing over their lovely 
and eager faces, the young girls plotted and held council 
together, sometimes laughing at the miserable plight in which 
Myra had presented herSelf at the door; sometimes listening 
with a start, as if amid the rush and pause of the storm, they 
yet feared to detect the tread of some person in pursuit of the 
beautiful fugitive. 

“ And now,” said Myra, after all had been told, “ let us de- 
liberate on the best step. At daylight I must start for New 
Castle, and thence to Baltimore in time to prevent Mr. Whit- 
ney taking the boat. He must not approach Wilmington. 
Who will go with me ? Where can I rest for a few hours in 
secresy ?” 

“ Who will go with you ? why, father, of course,” exclaimed 
one of the young girls, entering heart and soul into the inter- 
ests of her friend. “ Where can you rest ? Have we not a 
brother married and settled at New Castle, who knows and 
loves you, even as we do ? His wife will receive you, and 
joyfully enough.” 

Myra arose, her sweet face animated and sparkling with 
gratitude; she threw her arms around the young girl and 
kissed her. 

“ Oh, what friends you are ; how I love you,” she said, in 
her own frank, joyous way, turning to the other sister and 
4 


MYRA, THE CHILD OP ADOPTION. 


pressing lier forehead with lips that glowed with generous 
feeling. “It is worth while haying a little trouble, if it were 
only to prove such hearts as yours. I shall never forget this 
night ; never to my dying day.” 

“ Oh, it is quite like a romance, Myra,” exclaimed the 
younger of the girls, shaking back her ringlets, with a light 
laugh. “ Here we had been for hours and hours watching at 
the window, with the rain beating and pelting on the glass 
close to our faces, and exactly like two characters in a novel. 
Then, between the flashes of lightning and the rain that abso- 
lutely came down in sheets — I never saw any thing like it in 
my life — you come toiling up to the door, like some poor little 
fairy shut out in the storm — your face so wet and pale, and 
your eyes floating like diamonds, and your black curls all 
dripping with rain. Upon my word, Myra, there was some- 
thing unearthly about it all.” 

’ “ Perhaps it was best,” said Myra, smiling at the vivid fancy 
of her young friend. “ Had the night been calm and every 
thing quiet, I should have felt it more. The storm gave me 
courage. It seemed as if the very rushing and outbreak of 
the elements excited a sort of heroism in my heart. Had 
it been a soft moonlight evening, when I could have seen the 
old trees, the flowers, and all those sweet objects that poor 
mamma and I have loved to look upon so often when the 
moonlight was on them, I could hardly have found strength 
to leave them all. Poor, poor mamma, how she will grieve ; 
it will be a sad morning for her.” 

Myra bowed her head as she spoke, and her dark eyes filled 
with tears. The young girls gazed upon her with saddened 
countenances. This sorrow, so natural, so true, it was some- 
thing to chill all their light ideas of romance. 

Myra still sat with her face bowed down, lost in painful 
thought. Her heart was once more in its old home. She 
thought of the mother, the kind, gentle woman, who had 
taken her, like a young bird from the parent nest, and up to 
that very day had warmed her as it were with the pulses of 
her own heart into life and happiness. She thought of the 
proud old man, proud but full of strong affections ; self-willed 
but generous; who was dignified and grand even in his errors 
•—of the old man who had loved her so long and so well. She 


NO WEDDING AFTER ALL. 


9D 


thought of him, too, and the tears rolled fast and heavily down 
her cheeks. It was a terrible romance to her, poor thing. 
Nothing but a firm sense of right could, have induced her to 
proceed a step further in it. She was no young heroine, but 
a noble, strong-minded woman, suffering keenly, but firm be- 
cause she believed herself to be in the right. There was 
silence for a time, for the young girls respected the grief of 
their friend, then the eldest arose and leaning over Myra’s 
chair, began with gentle delicacy to smooth and arrange the 
light tresses that had been so completely disordered by the 
storm. 

“ And when you have found Mr. Whitney, Myra, when you 
have prevented the meeting, how will it all end ? In a wed- 
ding, and a reconciliation at the great house, no doubt,” said 
the sweet girl, anxious to draw her friend from the painful 
reverie into which she had fallen. 

“ No,” answered Myra, brushing the tears from her eyes, 
“ I expect nothing like a reconciliation. When I abandoned 
D. Place last night, it was with no thoughts of return. I gave 
up every thing then.” 

“Every thing but love; every thing but the man who 
loves you,” whispered her friend. 

“Even love — even him — I gave up all. Do you think 
that I have a dream of marrying him now ? That I intend 
to surround myself with the vulgar eclat of a ‘ runaway match ?’ 
It was. to save his life that I left my home. I will meet him 
on the way, warn him of my father’s hatred, and free him of 
all the engagements that have existed between us ” 

“ And where will you go then, dear friend ?” 

“ I have relatives in the West Indies, as I have been told, 
and I had resolved to seek their protection before leaving 
home.” 

“ Then there will be no wedding after all, and we shall lose 
you altogether,” cried the young girl, half in tears at the 
thoughts of this abrupt separation. 

“ Not forever ; I am sure we shall meet again,” answered 
Myra, casting an anxious glance through the window, for the 
conversation was arousing old feelings too keenly within her. 
“ But it will soon be daylight.” 

“ I have just aroused father, and told him all ; he will go 


100 


MYIiA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


with you to New Castle,” said the younger girl, who had been 
absent from the room. “ The stage starts by daybreak.” 

Daybreak! The gray of morning was in the sky even 
then. Instantly there was a bustle of preparation in that 
little bedroom. Myra’s garments, that had been drying by 
the fire, were hastily crowded into the trunk ; a fathom or two 
was cut from the bed-cord, that her ill-secured luggage might 
have the best protection their means afforded, and at the 
appointed time all was ready for Myra’s departure. Amid 
tears and affectionate embraces Myra parted with her young 
friends, and before the deep blue of night had fairly left the 
sky, she was on her route to New Castle. 

The stage had no passengers except Myra and her kind 
attendant, so in the stillness of the morning she had nothing 
to distract her thoughts from the mournful channel into which 
they naturally turned. The storm had swept over the earth, 
leaving only freshness and beauty behind. The trees that 
bent over the road were vivid with moisture, over which the 
rising sun fell with sparkling and genial warmth. Every spire 
of grass bent as if with the weight of a diamond at its point. 
The vines and creeping shrubs that grew along the fences 
seemed blossoming with gems, so thick were the water-drops 
among their leaves ; so bright were the sunbeams that kindled 
them into beauty. The atmosphere was full of cool, rich fra- 
grance, and every gush of air, as it swept through the ponder- 
ous vehicle that bore Myra from her home, was delicious to 
breathe. 

Ever and anon, as the stage followed the windings of the 
highway, Myra could obtain a view of her former home ; silent, 
stately, and refreshed, as it were, by the night storm, it rose 
before her tearful eyes. The proud old mansion, lifted on a 
terrace of hills above the level on which she traveled, could be 
seen for miles and miles around, and thus at every turn the 
noble features of all that she had given up were spread out 
before her gaze as if to mock her loneliness, or with their 
grandeur tempt her return. 

But Myra scarcely thought of the stately old mansion. Her 
affectionate heart penetrated beyond its walls ; she saw, as in 
a vision, one pale and gentle head asleep on its pillow, dream- 
ing of scenes that would never be again. It was a memory 


IT WAS ANOTHER MAN. 


101 


of the slumbering household abandoned in its unconsciousness, 
that filled the eyes of poor Myra with tears. She felt no 
regret for the noble property that she had rendered up without 
a sigh. But the household links that she had broken still 
quivered about her heart, and Myra, as she cast her eyes back 
on her stately old home, could not choose but weep. 

Our young traveler found her friends at New Castle willing 
to aid her, as the generous girls in- Wilmington had been. It 
was arranged that an old gentleman, father of the lady whose 
roof had given shelter to the young girl, should proceed with 
her to Baltimore, and with this most unexceptionable escort 
Myra set forth. With the gentleman whose house she had 
left, she intrusted a note which was to be delivered to Mr. 
Whitney, should he by chance have taken passage in the boat 
expected in a few hours from Baltimore. 

Anxious, hurried, and half ill with excitement, Myra and 
her companion reached Baltimore just in time to learn that a 
gentleman bearing the name of Whitney had taken passage in 
a boat which had passed them on their way. 

Agitated by fresh fears, and wild with dread that the meet- 
ing between her father and her lover might take place in spite 
of all her efforts, the poor girl had no resource but to return 
with her companion, in the wild hope that her note might 
reach Mr. Whitney at New Castle, and thus prevent his pro- 
ceeding on his route. By the return boat they reached the 
home of their generous friends once more, and there to her 
astonishment and dismay Myra found that a person of like 
name, but not the Mr. Whitney whom she sought to preserve 
from periling his life, had passed through New Castle. 

It was now beyond the day appointed for her lover’s arrival, 
and, without any knowledge of the time when he would pass 
through Baltimore, Myra had no better means of meeting him 
on the way than by remaining quietly with her friends till he 
should reach New Castle. The kind clergyman, who had so 
kindly given his protection to the adventurous girl, arranged 
that a strict watch should be kept at the landing. Thus day 
after day passed by, during which poor Myra suffered all the 
irksome pains of suspense, hoping, yet dreading the appearance 
of her lover, and haunted with a fear that her incensed parent 
might find out her place of shelter, and thus render all her 


102 


MY11A, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


efforts to prevent mischief of no avail. But thus harassed and 
worn out, she had only one resource. To wait — wait. To a 
nature ardent and impetuous as hers, this was a weary trial. 
So long as she had any thing to do, the excitement of action 
kept up her courage, but this life of inactive expectation wore 
upon her nerves, and she began to droop like a bird fettered 
in its cage. Thus she had lingered three days, imprisoned by 
her own free will, in the solitude of her chamber, when the 
event which she had most feared brought new agitation to her 
already overtaxed spirit. After days of vain and anxious 
search her parents had found out the place of her retreat. 

It often happens that persons of strong and powerful organ- 
ization become the slaves of their own will, and act in opposi- 
tion to their best feelings and cool judgment, merely because 
that will has been expressed. Pride, stern, commanding pride, 
such as must have been the characteristic of a man like Mr. 
D., shrinks from the confession of fallibility, which a change 
of purpose too surely acknowledges. Imperious from nature 
and from that right of command which is so readily yielded 
to the rich even in our republican country, he had expressed 
his dislike and opposition to Mr. Whitney, and maintained it, 
not that he believed his suspicions of unworthiness just, but 
because they had been once expressed ; and he, though gen- 
erous, noble, affectionate, and filled with love for his adopted 
child, was the slave of his own will — that which he had said 
must be. 

Upon the night of the storm this man had walked hours 
upon the veranda in front of his house, with the thunder 
booming and clashing overhead, and with the fierce lightning 
glaring across his pale face — and why ? Not that he did not 
feel his heart tremble with every roar of the thunder, not that 
each blaze of lightning did not take away his breath. He 
was afraid of lightning, and for that very reason chose to 
brave it.- Even the fear that was constitutional, that had 
grown and strengthened with him from childhood must yield 
to his will. 

After that night of storm, when the strong man had wrestled 
with his better feelings as he had wrestled with his fear, to 
conquer both, he awoke to find his daughter gone. Like the 
lightning, she had disappeared, leaving him nothing to contend 


A DESOLATE MANSION. 


103 


against. At first he would not believe the truth ; even the 
wild anguish of his wife, who had lost her child, and refused 
to be comforted, seemed groundless. He would not believe in 
the effect of his own violence ; but when the day passed by, 
when messenger after messenger returned, bearing no tidings 
of his daughter, the anguish which he endured could no long- 
er be held under control. Strong as his pride of authority, 
deep and earnest as his nature, was his love for the young 
girl just driven from beneath his roof. Why had she been 
forced to go? Even to his own heart he could give no 
answer, save that he had willed her to love according to liis 
wishes, and found her unable to wrestle with her affections as 
he had wrestled with the lightning. And now all the injustice 
of - this obstinate adhesion to his own will became palpable to 
him, as it had long been to those who had suffered by it. 
With the impulse of a heart really capable of great magna- 
nimity, he longed to make reparation to his child, The half 
of his great possessions he would have given for the privilege 
of holding her once more to his bosom, without the painful 
necessity of explanation. But a sleepless night was again 
followed by search and disappointment. It was strange how 
lonely and desolate that spacious house seemed when Myra 
was away. He missed the silvery ring of her laugh as he 
passed from room to room. Her empty seat at the table 
seemed to reproach him. He missed her light tread at night 
when she no longer came like a child, as she still was at 
heart, to ask for the good-night kiss. The tears and pale sor- 
row of his wife distressed him more keenly even than the void 
which Myra had left in that lordly dwelling. Altogether it 
was a mournful family — mournful as if a funeral had just 
passed from its midst. 

Thus day followed day, and at length the suspense, which 
had become terrible to bear, was relieved : Myra’s retreat at 
Hew Castle was made known to Mr. D. 

It seems a matter of astonishment that high-minded and 
strong men should so often become dupes and victims to per- 
sons every way inferior, intellectually and morally ; but when 
we reflect that the wise and generous are not only incapable 
of the low cunning and low motives which belong to the low 
of heart and mind, we can not marvel so much that they are 


104 


MYRA, THE CHILD OP ADOPTION. 


incapable, also, of believing in the existence of these things, 
and tuns from an unbelief in evil, leave themselves unguarded 
to the insidious meanness they can not recognize as a portion 
of humanity. 

We have said, that in the house of Mr. D. there was a rela- 
tive and guest, to whom the departure of Myra from her 
home opened hopes of influence and ultimate gain, which 
were strong enough to arouse all the cupidity of his nature. 
This man had, with insidious meekness, reanimated the dis- 
quiet of the household, and with his soft words and silky man- 
ner, poured oil on the wrath of Mr. D., when he saw it yielding 
to the generous dictates of affection. He had excited the fears 
which drove Myra from her home, through the soft duplicity 
of his wife, and now it was his great desire to prevent an 
interview, or the least chance of reconciliation between the 
young girl and her parents. This man had found little diffi- 
culty in tracing Myra from the first, but his knowledge was 
kept secret until he found that Mr. D. was certain to hear of 
her movements from other sources ; then he openly claimed 
the merit of great exertions in finding out her place of shelter, 
and volunteered, with the most disinterested air imaginable, 
his influence in persuading the young girl to return home. 

Glad to save himself the humiliation and pain of entreaties, 
from which his proud nature revolted, Mr. D. was well pleased 
to accept the friendly offer, and it was this man’s arrival at 
New Castle, that startled Myra from the little repose she had 
been enabled to obtain. Mr. D. had authorized his messenger 
to induce Myra’s return by gentle persuasion, by frank and 
generous promises that all should be forgiven, all forgotten. 
He made no stipulation, no reserve. All that he desired w r as 
the love and confidence of his child. To this was added 
many an affectionate message from the mother, whom Myra 
loved so fondly, and these were more than enough to have 
won the warm-hearted girl back to the bosom of her family. 

Myra saw this man, and he gave Mr. D.’s message faithfully, 
even the caressing words of Mrs. D. were not withheld ; but 
when he saw tears swell up and fill the fine eyes which Myra 
turned upon him as he gave the message — when he saw a 
gush of passionate tenderness sweep across her face, the man 
changed gradually in his manner. His eye, his downcast look, 


ARRIVED AT LAST. 


105 


the compression of his mouth, all told that something had 
been kept back. He seemed struggling with himself and 
Myra saw that all was not as it should be. The young girl 
had no doubt of this man’s sincerity — she had always believed 
him to be her Mend. How then was she to reconcile this 
restless manner, this sort of caution that gleamed in his eyes 
and spoke in every feature of his face, with the frank message 
of which he was the bearer ? 

After much anxious questioning the man consented to speak, 
but it was only out of the deepest and most self-sacrificing 
friendship to her. It was periling the favor of Mr. D. forever, 
but still he would speak. He would not urge a creature so 
young and lovely to rush blindfold into the power of a man 
exasperated as Mr. D. was against her. True, all these 
promises had been sent ; but in reality, the hate of her father 
had only been aggravated against Mr. Whitney by her flight. 
Mr. D. was implacable as ever, and instead of receiving his 
child with kindness, his sole desire was to win her by false 
protestations into his power again, and then punish her with 
all his haughty strength. 

All this was repeated with the most perfect appearance of 
sincerity. The truth seemed to have been wrested from this 
man’s heart, only by the solemn obligations of friendship. 
Myra was very grateful for this friendly warning, and the 
traitor left her strengthened in her purpose, but with an aching 
and desolate heart. 

Not an hour after this interview, Mr. Whitney arrived at 
New CastJe. Various reasons for delay had kept him behind 
his appointment, but Myra’s agent had been vigilant, and her 
note reached him as ne left the boat. Be came directly to 
the residence of tier Menu, ignorant of all that had transpired 
to drive Myra from the protection of her own home. 

Mr. Whitney nau left the voung girl gay. blooming, and 
brilliant, with joyous anticipations — she met him now pale and 
drooping, her eyes heavy with tears, her form swayed by the 
weight of her grief, like the stalk of a flower on which the 
dew has fallen too heavily. 

“ And now,” he said, when she had told him all, “ there is 
but one course for us to pursue, and that, thank Heaven, is 
one to secure our happiness. This man is not your father, and 


10<5 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


lias no legal authority over you. I will not speak of his in- 
justice to me — of his harshness to you — for in former years I 
know that he has been kind.” 

Myra’s eyes filled with grateful tears. There was some- 
thing in this gentle forbearance that touched her deeply. 

“Let us be united now, Myra; no one has authority over 
you. I am, in all things, independent !” 

It was hard to resist that pleading voice, those eyes so full 
of hopeful tenderness, but Myra drew away her hand with an 
air of gentle dignity, and a painful smile parted her lips. 

“ No,” she said, “ no ; I am here of my own will, unsolicit- 
ed, unexpected. It must not be said that your wife ran away 
from her father’s roof only to be married.” 

The proud delicacy with which this was spoken— so earnest 
in its simplicity — left no room for a doubt. Mr. Whitney did 
not plead with her, though greatly disappointed ; he merely 
took her hand, with a smile, and said : 

“ But this seems like rejecting me altogether. Surely there 
is too much of pride here. Would you suffer thus to save a 
life, and then render that life valueless, Myra ?” 

The color came and went upon Myra’s pale cheek. Now 
that he was by her side, her hand in his, those eyes upon her 
face, the poor girl felt how impossible it was to part from him 
forever. 

“I have friends — relatives in the West Indies,” she said; 
“ let me go to them. Come to me there, with the frank and 
full consent of your parents to our union, and I will be your 
wife.” 

“ No, not there, not so far. In Philadelphia — let me place 
you under the protection of your friends there. I will visit 
my parents — their presence and full consent shall sanction our 
marriage. Will not this arrangement satisfy even your deli- 
cacy, beloved ?” 

Again the warm rose tinge came and went on Myra’s cheek, 
and the tears that still swam in her eyes grew bright as 
diamonds wfith the smile that broke through them. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ this is enough.” 

Three hours from that time Myra and her lover were on 
their way to Philadelphia, but the good clergyman and his 
wife went with them from New Castle, and left their sweet 


RECONCILIATION. 


107 


charge with her friends, while Mr. Whitney proceeded to the 
home of his parents. 

And now, when the necessity for resistance was gone, the 
reaction of all this wild excitement swept over and prostrated 
her. Like a plant that keeps green so long as the frost is in 
its leaves, but withers and droops with the first glow of sun- 
shine, her strength gave way, and there was a time when her 
very life seemed in jeopardy. 

Thus weak and feeble, poor Myra lay upon her couch in 
the quiet gloom of her sick-chamber, and shrinking from the 
slightest sound, with that sensitive dread which was itself a 
pain, she heard a noise upon the stairs. It seemed like the 
hesitating tread of a man, blended with the eager and sup- 
pressed remonstrance of some person who desired to check his 
progress. Myra began to tremble, for even this was enough 
to shake every nerve of her slight frame. She lifted her pale 
hand, put back the tresses from her temple, and made a faint 
effort to lift her head from the pillow, but in vain. 

“ My child — my child refuse to see her father ? I will not 
believe it !” 

“ Father ! father !” broke from the lips of that pale girl, and 
she sank on her pillow gasping for breath. 

All was hushed then, the door opened softly, and through 
the gloom which hung around her couch, Myra saw the stately 
form of the old man who had so long been her father. His 
face was pale, and tears stood upon his cheek, as he bent 
down and kissed her forehead. Myra smiled, and drawing a 
deep breath closed her eyes, and then opened them with a 
look of touching love. 

“ Father !” 

“My child !” 

The old man sat down with her hand in his, and began 
smoothing the slender fingers with his other palm, as he had 
done so often in her childhood. This little act brought a 
world of pleasant old memories back to Myra’s heart, one after 
another, like drops of cool dew upon a half-blighted flower. 
She turned gently, and placed her other hand in the old 
man’s palm. 

He bent down and kissed the two little hands he clasped 
in his. 


108 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


“ Aucl mamma !” whispered Myra. 

“Your mamma has been pining for her child, Myra, and I 
am here to take you home again.” 

“But you hate him— you— you— ” The poor girl broke 
off with a shudder. 

“ No, I will like him for your sake, love !” was the kina 
reply. 

Myra closed her eyes, and tears broke through the dark 
lashes. 

The old man now smiled, as he saw the tremulous joy his 
words had brought to that pale face. 

“We will have the wedding at D. Place, and when you go 
away again, Myra, it must not be without a blessing.” 

“ Oh, papa, I am so happy,” whispered the poor girl, draw- 
ing a deep breath. She did not unclose her eyes again, but a 
sweet placidity stole over her face, and she fell into a calm 
sleep, the first that had visited her eyelids in many a long 
day and night. 

Never had D. Place looked more beautiful than it appeared 
on the day when Myra returned to it, with her happy father. 
The fine old building, with all its surrounding trees, was bathed 
in a flood of sunshine, that hung over the whole landscape 
like the mist of a bridal vail. The servants were all out to 
receive their young mistress as she alighted from the carriage ; 
even the hunting dogs came whining and yelping from their 
kennels, riotous with joy, as sd rhany politicians the day after 
an election. Myra had smiles for all ; but as her eyes fell 
upon the gentle mother, who had loved her so devotedly, the 
young girl broke away, her cheeks glowing, her eyes full of 
tears, and threw herself into the arms that were joyously 
opened to receive her. 

“ Oh, mamma, I never expected to be so happy again !” she 
cried, shaking back her curls, and gazing upon the face of her 
mother with a look of thrilling affection. “ But you are pale, 
mamma !” 

“ No, not now ; but I am very, very happy, Myra.” 

“ But I have only brought her home that she may leave us 
again,” said Mr. D., with a frank smile, as his wife held out 
one hand to welcome him, while the other still clung to her 
child. 


\ 


TIIE WEDDING -NIGHT. 


109 


“ I know, I know ; but that is quite a different thing,” an- 
swered the happy mother, drawing Myra into the house. 

As Myra passed up to her old room she met the household 
traitor, who had so deliberately misrepresented his friend. 
The man held out his hand. 

“ No,” said Myra, drawing back with quiet contempt ; “ for 
your children’s sake I have not exposed your baseness, but 
there can be no friendship between us in future.” 

“ So because your father has changed, I am to be censured 
for misrepresentation,” answered the man with consummate 
self-possession. “ Burt this is the usual reward of an honest 
endeavor to serve.” 

Myra passed on, without reply. 

Mr. D. was not a man to make partial atonement for an 
error. A prompt and urgent request was forwarded to Mr. 
Whitney and his parents, that they should make D. Place, and 
not Philadelphia, the destination of their journey. Meantime 
every arrangement was commenced for the wedding, and thus 
Myra’s path of life lay among blossoms and in the sunshine 
again. It was a pleasant thing to wait then, for a world of 
happiness seemed dawning for her in the future. 

Mr. Whitney came at last, and with him the revered parent, 
whose consent to his son’s marriage had been frankly given. 
After all their trials and jidventures, the young couple were 
to be married quietly at last under the shelter of home, sur- 
rounded by those who knew and loved them best. 

You should have seen Myra Clark as she came down the 
massive staircase in her bridal dress that wedding-night. Her 
petite figure, graceful as a sylph, was rendered still more 
ethereal by the misty floating of her bridal vail. The fragrance 
of a few white blossoms floated through her ringlets, and her 
small foot, clad in its slipper of snowy satin, scarcely seemed 
to touch the stairs as she descended. 

Whitney stood by the open door ready to receive his bride. 
With her own peculiar and feminine grace she met him ; the 
glow upon her cheek took a deeper rose-tint as she laid her 
small hand in his. She trembled a little, just enough to give 
a flower-like tremor to the folds of her vail, and for one instant 
the shadow of deep thought swept over her face. 

The bridegroom was very tall, and this gave to Myra a 


110 


MTRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


look still mere feminine and child-like, as she stood by his 
side. 

“Are you ready, dearest?” he said, bending gently oyer 
her. 

She gave a faint start, and lifted her large brown eyes to 
his with a smile of such deep love and holy trust, as seldom 
looks up from a soul merely human. That smile was answer 
enough. The next moment they stood within the broad light 
that flooded the drawing-room. A few wotds — a few mur- 
mured blessings — perchance a few tears — for the tears of affec- 
tionate regret are sometimes the brightest jewels that can be 
cast at the feet of a bride — and then Myra Clark became a 
wife. 


A DISCOVERY. 


Ill 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ Pain ! pain ! art thou wrestling here with man, 

For the broken gold of his wasted span ? 

Art thou straining thy rock on his tortured nerve. 

Till his firmest hopes from their anchor swerve, 

Till the burning tears from his eyeballs flow, 

And his manhood yields in a cry of woe ? 

“ Death ! death ! do I see thee with weapon dread — 

Art thou laying thy hand on his noble head ? 

Lo ! the wife is here, with her sleepless eye, 

To dispute each step of thy victory. 

She doth fold that form in her soul’s embrace, 

And her prayer swells high from its resting-place.” 

In a quiet village of New York, Myra Whitney made her 
home with the man who had won her against so much oppo- 
sition and amid so many trials. She had cast off the splendor 
of her old life, and, sharing the fortunes of her husband, be- 
gan a new and still more noble existence ; but directly came 
one to the little Eden with news that would henceforth and 
forever more drive quiet away from her home. 

A man who was well acquainted with the frauds that had 
been practiced on the infant heiress, sought out the young 
bride and told her of the vast wealth illegally withheld from 
her by the executors of Daniel Clark’s estate — told her of that 
which stirred the proud blood in her veins more warmly than 
any idea of wealth could have done— the doubt that had been 
craftily thrown on her own legitimacy, and thus on the fair 
fame of her mother. 

From that day all hope of repose fled from her happy home. 
A stern duty was before her— that* of retrieving the wrongs 
heaped on her mother, and of wresting the honorable name of 
a father, whom she worshiped even in his memory, from the 
odium that had been fastened upon his actions. Joined to 
all this, was the natural ambition of a high-spirited and proud 
young woman to claim her true position in the world, and to 


112 


MYRA, TIIE CHILD OP ADOPTION. 


endow the man of her choice with wealth justly her own, hut 
of which he had been all unconscious at the time of their 
marriage ; and now commenced that stem strife between 
justice and fraud which has for more than twenty years made 
the romance of our courts. With her young husband Myra 
went to New Orleans, and there gathered up those threads of 
evidence which laid the iniquity, which had darkened her 
whole life, bare before the world. There she found Madame 
De Gordette, her mother, the Zulima of our true story, and 
there, for the first time, she learned all the domestic romance 
of her own history. The anguish that had followed her 
mother, the remorse and solemn restitution that had marked 
the closing hours of her father’s life. 

To a being ambitious and imaginative as Myra, this inter- 
view with her mother was calculated to make a painful and 
solemn impression. The one great idea of her life became a 
firm resolve ; to that she was ready to sacrifice domestic 
peace and all those feminine aims which spring from highly 
cultivated tastes. Still womanly in all her acts, she took 
upon herself the research and duties of a man, not alone, but 
hand in hand with the husband whose happiness and aggrand- 
izement would be secured by these exertions. 

But the vast property of Daniel Clark had been scattered 
far and wide by the men who had taken it in trust. The 
personal property had melted away first, then tract after 
tract of land, block upon block of real estate had followed, 
till the claimants, most of them innocent purchasers, might be 
counted by hundreds. But the greater the obstacles that 
presented themselves, the more resolute became this young 
creature in the advocacy of her own just cause. All neces- 
sary evidence of the existence of a last will and of its destruc- 
tion was secured ; witnesses of Zulima’s marriage with Daniel 
Clark in Philadelphia still existed. The mother herself, 
though shrinking from the cruel publicity of her wrongs, gave 
such aid as her naturally 'shrinking nature, now rendered al- 
most timid by suffering, would permit. Men of influence, 
struck by the sublime spectacle of a fair young creature, with 
scarcely the physical strength of a child, entering courageously 
on a battle where such fearful odds prevailed against her, came 
generously to her support. The great fight of her life opened 


MANY ENEMIES. 


113 


hopefully ; victory might be distant, but she would not doubt 
that it would come at last. 

But in the midst of her first struggle she had forgotten to 
be prudent, indeed precaution was scarcely natural to that 
early period of her life. By adoption she had become a child 
of the North, but the w T arm genial glow of her blood still sym- 
pathized with the sunny climate to which she had moved, fear- 
lessly, with her little children at the most dangerous season 
of the year. 

But her husband was a northern man by birth, and he did 
not assimilate readily to the hot, moist climate of New Or- 
leans. The excitement into which he was thrown doubtless 
added to the causes which oppressed him ; in the midst of his 
struggles, in the full bloom and force of his manly youth, Whit- 
ney was stricken down among the first victims that the yel- 
low fever seized upon that year. 

They were living at an hotel in the heart of the city, with 
no home comforts around them, and surrounded by a crowd 
of enemies — such as spring from hotly-contested law-suits 
where many persons are interested in the defence. To all 
those persons who had in any way attained a claim on the 
property of Daniel Clark, his daughter was, of course, held as 
an aggressive enemy, — a woman who had come with her am- 
bition and her doubtful claims to disturb the tranquillity of a 
great city. Many of these persons, having bought the prop- 
erty they possessed in good faith, really felt her action to be 
a great wrong — they had no means of knowing the facts of a 
case over which so many legal minds have struggled, and 
naturally sided with their own visible interests against the fair 
claimant. Thus the yellow fever that struck her husband 
down in a single hour, found Myra in the midst of enemies 
such as few women have ever encountered. 

All day Myra had been lonely and sad, her children felt 
the heavy effects of the climate, and her own bright energies 
seemed yielding themselves to the enervating influences that 
surrounded them. Sometimes in the great struggle that she 
had commenced so bravely, Myra felt the painful reaction 
which springs from a long strain upon the energies. That 
day she had been thinking of her pretty home in the North, 
of its quietude, its cool thickets, and the great forest-trees that 


114 


MYIIA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


overshadowed it. Near the house was a spring of water — one 
of those natural outgushes of crystal waves which children 
love to play near, and whose flow is remembered as the sweet- 
est music in the world afterward. In the heat and closeness 
of her room, Myra’s thoughts had been constantly going back 
to this spring. The children also had prattled about it be- 
tween themselves, and once had joined in a pretty petition to 
the languid mother that they might go back again and play 
out-of-doors. 

Myra felt the tears come to her eyes as she answered them ; 
there was no real cause for this depression, but it had fallen 
heavily upon her all day ; she felt like snatching up her little 
ones and fleeing with them to the northward, where they 
might all breathe and laugh freely. 

While the young wife was in .this strange mood, the door 
opened and her husband came in. She glanced up in his face 
smiling a welcome, but his eyes were heavy, and a hot crimson 
burning on either cheek startled her. 

She put the children aside, and seizing his hand gave an- 
other terrified look in his face. He tried to smile, but in- 
stantly lifted a hand to his forehead and groaned aloud. 

“ What is this, my husband — are you ill, or have you been 
walking in the hot sun ?” 

He withdrew his hot hand from her clasp, and sharply or- 
dered the children back as they came laughing toward him. 
The little ones began to cry, but Myra would not be repulsed, 
she was no child to shrink away from a sharp word, though 
it was the first she had ever known him give her darlings. 

“ Ah ! now I am sure you must be ill,” she said, hushing 
the children ; “ who ever saw you cross before, my Whitney, 
above all things, to them ?” 

“ They must not come near me — send them away, and go 
yourself,” he said, huskily. 

“ What ! I — I go away ?” cried the young wife, with a groan 
of indignation breaking up through her terror ; “ what can 
you think of me, Whitney ?” 

“ For their sake— for your own, Myra,” he said, pushing her 
away ; “ child— child, it is the fever that is upon me.” 

She looked at him eagerly, almost wildly; her pale lips fell 
apart and her cheek grew cold as snow. 


YELLOW FEWER. 


115 


“ Take the clrilclren away,” she said, motioning backward 
with her hand to a mulatto girl who stood looking on. “ Take 
them quite away into your own room, Agnes, and be still.” 

The little ones went reluctantly and with tears standing in 
their wild eyes. It was so strange for them to be sent away 
when papa came in — then he looked so odd and stood so un- 
steadily on the floor, besides mamma was beginning to cry — 
they would go back and ask her what it was all about. 

But no, the firm little maid held them tight and forced them, 
struggling, through the door. She knew what those symptoms 
foreboded, and a sudden dread seized upon her. Yes, she 
would save the little ones — that was all she could hope for — 
and away she dragged them into her own little room which 
was distant from the infected chamber. 

Myra forgot her children, forgot every thing in the frightful 
symptoms that burned on her husband’s face, and shot fire 
into the hands she clasped and wrung in her own. 

“ O husband ! my husband, it is not that — not the fever, 
God help us ! You have been in the heat — you are tired out; 
a glass of ice- water and a little rest will drive this headache 
away.” 

“ Oh, it is terrible, Myra, my temples seem splitting with 
the pain,” he murmured, holding his head between both hands 
and reeling to and fro. 

“ But it is the heat — it is the heat !” she persisted, deter- 
mined to believe herself. 

“ It is death ! — O Myra ! I fear it is death !”, 

She began to tremble in all her limbs, a wild terror broke 
into her brown eyes, giving them an unearthly brightness. 

“ Oh, don’t — don’t ! the bare idea kills me,” she pleaded, 
flinging her arms around him. 

He struggled and tried to force her away, but the fire of 
disease and the power of her great love was stronger than 
his confused will. She drew him toward the bed and forced 
him down to the pillows, praying him to be quiet and to try 
and sleep. 

While he lay moaning on the pillows, she ran for ice-water 
and gave it to his hot lips, bound his forehead with wet nap- 
kins, and strove, in her sweet feminine way, to assuage the 
pain which had seized so fiercely upon him. To have seen 


116 


MYRA, THE CHILD OP ADOPTION. 


that slight creature acting as a nurse to the being she most 
loved, you would hardly have believed it possible that she 
possessed ’sufficient energy to take a controlling lead in one of 
the most important law-cases that ever astonished our country 
— that she had breasted difficulties and outlived discourage- 
ments, before which strong men might have retreated, without 
a forfeiture of courage. In that sick-room she was gentle as 
childhood, but quick as lightning to seize upon any means of 
mitigating the pain that held that young man as in the em- 
brace of a fiend. 

Hour after hour she watched in that sick-chamber. The 
doctor came, ordered the usual remedies, and went away 
again, with a heart that feltl ittle and a face that told nothing 
at all. His course of practice was unvaried — the same medi- 
cines in almost every case — copious bleeding — vague, wild 
hopes in the loving hearts that ached around the bed — then 
the last fatal symptom and death — thus it went day after day. 

Poor Myra ! how she searched that man’s leaden eyes for 
some little gleam of hope when he came into that sick-cliam- 
ber ! how eagerly she strove to read features that never 
changed to a thought or a feeling, even when death stood 
close by ! Still she would not despair; had not every obstacle 
given way to the force of her own will so far in her life, — was 
she to be baffled and conquered now ? To her warm heart 
it seemed impossible that death could strike a form so full of 
manly strength, or that she could live an hour after him if the 
great calamity did come. 

Alas ! with all her experience and force, Myra was yet to 
learn how difficult it is for a human heart to break of grief, or 
exhaust itself with trouble. If a wish to die could induce the 
dark destroyer to strike, many a breathing — nay, blooming 
form would be lying low, which is now doomed to run its 
course to the end. 

One day, it -was less than a week after the first attack, 
Myra was called to the bedside of her husband. A great and 
terrible change had come upon that splendid form ; the flesh 
had seemed to melt away from his limbs like mist from the 
uplands ; his eyes were hollow ; the skin upon his forehead a 
yellowish brown. 

“ Myra, my poor wife.” 


DELUSIVE HOPES. 


117 


She bent down and kissed the fever-stained forehead. 

“ My husband ! you are better ; there, the brightness is 
coming back to your eyes.” 

“ No, Myra, no ; I feel strangely but not better.” 

A movement of impotent sorrow revealed the struggle with 
which the poor woman strove to disprove this truth to her 
heart. 

“ Don’t say that — you don’t understand ; wait till the doc- 
tor comes, he will tell you that I am right.” 

The sick man moved his hand feebly on the pillow, and a 
moan broke from his lips. 

Just then the doctor came in from his rounds in the infest- 
ed city. The young wife appealed to him, with her mournful 
eyes trembling with an awful dread as his fingers touched the 
pulse. 

“ O doctor ! is he better ?” 

“ Yes, undoubtedly.” 

Myra burst into tears ; the invalid brightened a little, then 
turned his face on the pillow, and great tears rolled down his 
cheeks. 

“ No, doctor,” he murmured, “ no !” 

“ It is my opinion we have every thing to hope here, 
madam. Let us take a little more blood, and all will go on 
well.” 

Bandages were brought ; the sharp lancet bit its way a 
third time into those hot veins, and directly a servant bore 
out a great white toilet-bowl frothing over with the red life 
drawn from a frame already exhausted with its battle against 
the fever. 

“ There, madam,” said the doctor, laying the wounded arm 
of his patient tenderly on the counterpane. “ He will do well 
now, have no fear ; I will drop in this evening ; follow the 
old directions and keep him quiet.” 

“ O doctor ! I can not speak my thankfulness, my heart is 
so full.” 

“ There is no necessity of words,” said the doctor, com- 
placently ; “ or for gratitude either, so far as I am concerned.” 

Myra followed the man, whom she looked upon as some- 
thing more than human, into the hall. 

“ Ah, doctor, arc you sure that he is better — it was not done 


118 


MYItA, THE CHILD OP ADOPTION. 


to cheer him up ?” she cried, while her poor lips began to 
quiver with the fear that crept over her. 

“ Nothing of the sort, dear lady. He is doing well enough ; 
but take care of yourself.” 

Myra smiled on him through her tears. “ God bless you 
for this comfort,” she said, leaning over the baluster. 

After he was gone, Myra ran into the room where her chil- 
dren were kept safe from contagion, and gathering them to 
her bosom, lavished rapturous caresses on their smiling faces. 

“ He is better— he is better, my darlings ; he, your blessed, 
blessed papa. Kiss me a thousand times, and when I am gone 
go down on your knees so, with these angel faces lifted to 
heaven, and thank God — do you understand, children ? — thank 
God, that papa is better and will live. 

The children obeyed her, and dropping on their knees, lifted 
their pretty faces heavenward, like the cherubs we see in 
Raphael’s pictures, looking the prayers they had no language 
to utter. 

Then Myra, having subdued her great, joy, went back to the 
sick-room again. How still and deathly he lay under the 
white cloud of sunshine that brooded over the bed ! Myra 
held her breath, and listened for some sign of improvement. 
His eyes were closed, and his lips shrunk together and closed 
motionless in their golden pallor. How the heart of that fond 
w T oman cheated itself. His languid stillness was a good sign 
to her. 

“ Yes,” she whispered, sitting down by the bed, and softly 
clasping his feeble hand. “ There is no pain now ; he rests 
sweetly.” 

He heard her and clasped her fingers with feeble recognition, 
but did not speak or attempt to utter a word. Still the great 
tears rolled down his face, and she knew he was conscious. 

Thus two or three hours passed and then the fever grew 
rampant again, and fell upon that weak form like a vampyre, 
drinking up all the life that the lancet had left. Myra began 
to be frightened, and hoped impatiently for the doctor to come. 
There was something in the case that she could not under- 
stand ; doubtless, it was all right, but the look of that haggard 
face was appalling. 

At last the physician came slowly, and with that slow 


A TERRIBLE DISAPPOINTMENT. 


119 


method which is so irksome to an impatient heart. He came 
to the bed, felt of the patient’s pulse, laid the hand gently 
down, and turned away muttering that she might go on as 
before, there were no fresh directions to give. 

Now the patient opened his eyes, and fixed them with 
mournful reproach on the doctor’s face ; he did not attempt to 
speak, but the great tears gathered slowly in his eyes, and the 
dark lashes closed again. 

As usual Myra followed the doctor out of the room. 

“ Tell me,” she said ; “ he is no worse — he is getting well ; 
there is no danger now.” 

The doctor drew on his glove, smoothing it to the hand, 
while she was speaking. 

“ There is no hope, my dear madam ; not a gleam. He 
must die before morning ; did you not observe the black on 
his lips.” 

“ Die before morning — my husband. Oh, no ! you want to 
see if I have all the courage people talk about ; but you see, 
doctor, I am a poor little coward. One does not fight with 
death. Don’t you see how I tremble ? Don’t, don’t 'carry 
this any further. I’m not very strong, and — and — oh, my 
God ! my God ! why don’t you speak to me ?” 

“ Indeed, my poor lady, I have nothing more to say ; it 
would give me great satisfaction to give you hope if I had 
any myself. But the last fatal symptom has come, no skill 
on earth can save him ; it is but a question of time now — 
hardly that, in fact.” 

The doctor was going down-stairs as he spoke, for he 
would gladly have avoided the anguish that came like a storm 
into that white face, but Myra sprang after him, seizing hold 
of his arm. 

“O doctor ! 0 doctor!” she cried, gasping for breath; “ is 
this true ?” 

“ Indeed, I regret to say it, but nothing could be more 
certain.” 

Her hand dropped from his arm, her whole being grew 
cold till the icy chill penetrated to her heart. She watched 
him, as he glided down the stairs, with a strained and wild 
look. Then she turned and went into the chamber where her 
husband lay dying. 


120 


MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. 


■When Myra came forth again she was a widow. In one 
of those cemeteries hemmed in by moss-grown walls and filled 
with, gloomy verdure, they laid the young husband down to 
his long rest. A pale little woman with two fair children 
wondering at their black crape dresses, stood by silent and 
filled with a dreary wonder that it took so little time to ren- 
der a human life desolate. There was no noisy grief in that 
solemn inclosure ; the little children held their breath in vague 
awe. The mother looked on as if those strange men were 
burying her heart which she could never rescue back from 
the grave. 

Years went by — life made its inevitable claims, and the 
great battle of the law went on, which Myra fought out in 
behalf of the parents who were dead and the children of her 
husband. In the course of this struggle, a brave old man, 
one who had served his country well and stood at the head 
of its armies, laid his heart and his well-earned fame at Myra’s 
feet, and she became his wife. A few years and he, in the 
very city which had proved so fatal to her first love, lay 
down amid his ripe honors, and died, blessing her with his last 
word on earth. And now she still — indomitable still — untir- 
ing fights the great battle alone, and another year will prove 
that the life-struggle of Myra Clark Gaines has not been 
without its victory, and that energy, even in a delicate woman, 
can at last overtake justice. 





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